THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SONGS  FROM  THE 
GRANITE  HILLS 

BY 
CLARK  B.  COCHRANE 


BOSTON 

THE  GORHAM  PRESS 
MCMXVIII 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY  CLARK  B.  COCHRANE 


All  Rights  Reserved 


Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


The  Gorham  Press,  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


fs 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Love  Lives  Forever:    A  Medley    ....  7 

If? 35 

On  a  Picture  Set  in  Gold    ......  36 

The  Days  of  Long  Ago 40 

A  Battle  Call.     1862 46 

Fredericksburg 48 

Noon  by  Lake  Sunapee 50 

The  Builders        52 

The  Plaint   of   the   Pessimist 54 

The  Star   of   the   Optimist 57 

The  Voice  of  Love  Divine 59 

A    Tryst 62 

New  England 63 

Our  Angels 65 

Crosses 67 

For  Don, — My  Dog 68 

A  Farewell  to  Joe  English 70 

Anabel 75 

To   Susie 78 

The  Light  Men  Use 79 

A  Reverie 81 

The  Sweetest  Word 83 

A  Plea  for  a  Heart 84 

3 


626070 


4  Contents 

PAGE 

Sonnets 86 

The  Tryst  of  the  Pilot 95 

The  White  Ticket 97 

On  the  Shore 99 

A  Plea  for  Love  .                                            .  101 


SONGS  FROM  THE  GRANITE  HILLS 


LOVE  LIVES  FOREVER:  A  MEDLEY 


Prelude 

JOVE  and  Juno,  Oberon, 
From  the  fields  of  time  have  fled; 
All  the  gods  but  Love  are  gone — 
Realmless,  hopeless,  listless,  dead! 
When  Jehovah  claimed  His  own 
And  the  old  gods  fled  away, 
Love  was  kindred  to  His  throne 
And  the  Master  bade  him  stay. 

Thor  and  Odin,  Neptune,  Pan — 
Not  one  could  the  test  endure; 
Love,  the  dreamer,  lives  for  man 
Only  that  his  heart  was  pure. 
Slaves  may  rise  at  Freedom's  call, 
Freemen  bound  as  slaves  may  be, 
Empires  wax  and  kingdoms  fall, 
Deserts  smile  with  blade  and  tree — 

Seas  and  rivers  may  dry  up, 
Cities  stand  where  now  are  seas, 
Still  this  god  will  dine  and  sup 
In  their  cots  and  palaces! 
He  shall  touch  the  hearts  of  men 
With  the  fire  that  burns  on  high, 
Which  if  quenched  will  burn  again 
In  the  soul  that  cannot  die. 
7 


8  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

And  his  careful  feet  shall  go 
Where  we  laugh  or  weep  or  plod, 
Till  the  thoughts  of  men  shall  grow 
Something  like  a  thought  of  God; 
Till  is  set  the  last  fair  sun 
Mortal  eyes  shall  look  upon; 
Till  the  moon  and  stars  have  run 
Their  last  courses,  and  are  gone; 

Till  the  heavens  overhead 
Like  a  scroll  are  rolled  away — 
Then  shall  Love  indeed  be  dead, 
And  his  reign  have  had  its  day. 
No! — Beyond  the  stars  and  sun, 
On  a  fair  and  peaceful  shore, 
His  immortal  reign  begun, 
Love  will  live  forevermore! 

Since  Love  first  dreamed  his  sweet,  immortal  dream 

Where  radiant  Eve,  ungarmented  as  dawn, 

Toyed  with  the  tempter  for  the  bitter  fruit 

Of  sweat  and  tears  and  everlasting  moil, 

His  lips,  that  press  the  fond  heart  of  the  rose 

With  eager  joy,  have  chanced  the  bitter  thorn; 

And  men  have  ever  since  that  sorry  slip 

Pursuing  substance,  to  a  shadow  knelt, 

Or  hopeless  beauty  wept  its  bloom  away, 

Or  flung  its  heart  against  a  barbed  scorn 

Indifferent  as  death.     So  runs  the  world, 

And  ever  some  bewildered  heart  will  grieve 

In  Night's  dumb  ear,  or  to  the  homeless  winds 

That  moan  about  the  windows  and  the  eaves 

On  stormy  autumn  nights,  or  sigh  forlorn 

O'er  stubble  fields  and  through  the  leafless  wood, 

For  Summer  gone  with  all  its  golden  days. 


Love  Lives  Forever:    A  Medley  9 

I  had  a  friend  in  the  bright  days  of  youth, 

When  life  was  joy  and  all  the  earth  was  fair: 

Arthur  his  name — a  friend  with  whom  I  built 

Youth's  airy  castles,  happy  not  to  know 

They  stood  upon  the  shifting  sands  of  life 

Or  that  rude  winds  would  lay  them  at  our  feet. 

Companions,  playmates,  all  in  all  to  each, 

We  grew  like  foster  brothers  side  by  side, 

Our  thoughts,  our  joys,  our  loves  and  hates  alike. 

I  loved  him  as  a  brother  or  a  friend 

In  youth's  hot  blood  can  love,  because  I  knew, 

By  that  fine  instinct  with  which  children  choose, 

And  women  know  their  friends,  and  dogs  their  foes, 

He  could  no  more  play  truant  to  my  need 

Than  God  could  be  unjust,  or  falsehood  true. 

Alas  for  me,  who  from  the  barren  years 

Have  beaten  out  this  truth:  that  friendship  true, 

Firm  as  the  hills,  unswerving  as  a  star, 

Unselfish  as  the  ministry  of  love 

Where  grim  death  revels  and  misfortune  falls, 

Is  the  most  precious  jewel  of  the  earth, 

The  one  thing  likest  God.     And  yet  so  rare — 

So  clothed  upon  with  Satan's  livery — 

So  covered  and  concealed  in  earthly  grime, 

Men  seek  it  as  the  Pilgrims  sought  the  Grail 

And  go  to  find  it  on  the  shore  of  Night. 

Friendship  that  waits  on  fortune's  gilded  smile 

And  flatters  thrift,  but  far  from  misery  flies, 

Is  not  the  white-winged  child  of  Paradise 

With  balm  of  healing  in  his  finger  tips, 

But  just  a  bastard  bantling  of  the  world, 

With  baser  thoughts  to  baser  uses  born. 


IO  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

O,  rare  true  natures!  they  could  not  be  false; 
False  natures  cannot,  if  they  will,  be  true. 

We  played  together  by  the  wide  elm  tree, 

Or  chased  along  green  fields  and  running  streams 

Not  shadows,  but  true  joys.     O  then,  we  thought 

Our  little  circle  was  the  happy  world, 

The  blithesome,  happy  world  that  knew  not  grief. 

The  noisy  squirrels  and  the  birds  unscared 

Were  our  companions  in  that  blissful  time, 

And  our  domain,  by  the  same  fee,  was  theirs, 

For  Nature  is  a  mother,  and  she  gives 

To  tree  and  flower  and  every  living  thing 

The  foison  of  her  breast  in  equal  share, 

And  in  her  soft  caress  there  is  no  pain 

Nor  any  touch  of  sorrow  in  her  face. 

We  read  together  from  the  same  worn  book 

The  old  familiar  tales  that  never  die, 

And  Daniel  cowed  the  lions  yet  again, 

And  Joseph  ruled  fair  Egypt  and  the  Nile; 

And,  ever  when  the  happy  day  was  done, 

We  said,  as  to  a  Father  that  we  knew, 

"Thy  name  be  hallowed  and  Thy  kingdom  come." 

Immortal  voice  from  love-crowned  Olivet, 
Out  of  the  wilderness  of  woe  and  death, 
The  soul's  strong  plea — a  cry  without  a  creed, 
And  most  acceptable  to  Him  who  made 
The  tenderness  of  its  divine  appeal, 
When,  by  far  Galilee,  He  talked  with  men, 
And  told  them  of  Himself,  and  how  this  prayer, 
In  all  the  ages  to  the  end  of  time, 


Love  Lives  Forever:    A  Medley  II 

Should  voice  their  needs  and  reach  the  ear  of  God. 

And  so  it  rises  when  the  morning  breaks 

In  sunrise,  leaping  from  the  crystal  hills, 

And  when  the  shadows  of  the  night  draw  near 

The  Angelus  is  sounded,  and  we  pray! 

From  brilliant  lips  that  wear  the  bloom  of  youth, 

From  lips  that  glow  with  manhood's  lusty  strength, 

From  pale,  thin  lips  that  falter  and  grow  dumb, 

From  dying  lips  that  speak  no  more  to  earth, 

It  riseth  like  the  smoke  of  sacrifice, 

Moving  to  pity  the  great  heart  of  Christ! 

So  fared  we  on  with  youth's  slow-pacing  years, 
While   childhood's  supple   limbs  grew  strong  and 

lithe, 

And  all  our  thoughts  grew  wider,  as  the  rills 
Grow  broader,  deeper  toward  the  larger  stream. 
The  woods  were  our  first  love ;  and  there  we  heard 
The  brook's  low  speech,  the  voices  of  the  winds. 
We  climbed  the  mountain  at  the  day's  decline, 
And  from  beneath  the  gnarled  and  dying  oak, 
Where  oft  the  Indian  maiden  plighted  love 
With  some  tall  son  of  nature,  pure  and  free, 
We  watched  the  sun,  slow  sinking  in  the  west 
As  ships  upon  the  ocean  disappear, 

Gathering  afar  his  robes  of  shadowy  flame 
That  trail  forever  round  the  rolling  world, 
Fringing  the  garments  of  the  night  with  gold. 
Anon  the  blind  owl  from  his  hemlock  tree, 
Disconsolate,  began  to  hail  his  mate 
Far  in  the  dark  still  wood ;  and  quickly  mocked 
By  his  insulting  echo — "Whoo,  Whoo-o-o — " 
Gloomy  and  dismal,  shouted  louder  still 


12  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

With  weird,  untuneful  voice — "tuwhoo,  tuwhoo!" 
So  on  we  fared  to  manhood's  opening  years, 
Where  faith  and  hope  stand,  eager,  hand  in  hand, 
Upon  the  threshold  of  a  larger  world. 

He  loved  a  maiden  of  the  fair  green  wood, 
A  father's  pride,  a  princess  of  the  fields, — 
Like  some  tall  wildflower,  by  a  stream,  she  grew, 
Untaught  by  art,  to  unrestricted  grace; 
The  winds  of  summer  tangled  her  dark  hair 
In  riotous  beauty  round  her  happy  face ; 
The  ardent  sun  had  kissed  her  unabashed 
To  beauty's  hue,  and  thenceforth  stood  at  gaze. 

And  thus  she  grew  to  perfect  maidenhood 

As  fair  as  any  that  in  olden  days 

Have  worn  with  honor  as  a  priceless  gem 

The  perfect  name  which  is  itself  a  prayer. 

As  Jephtha's  daughter,  the  pure  Gileadite, 

From  Mizpeh's  gate,  with  vine  wreath  and  with 

song, 

She  might  have  gone  to  sacrifice  and  fame, 
Or  posed,  as  Innocence,  for  Raphael 
And  thus  adorned  the  cottage  and  the  hall, 
Beloved  forever  and  forever  fair. 

Ave  Mary!     O,  sweetest,  dearest  name 
That  ever  trembled  on  a  human  tongue! 
Ave  Mary!  with  the  Babe  immortal 
Close  folded  in  the  cradle  of  thy  breast, 
In  Joseph's  tent  beneath  Judaea's  palms! 
Ave  Mary!  through  ages  dark  and  long, 
In  marble  orisons  lifting  thy  calm  eyes, 
Of  still  compassion,  and  in  pictured  prayer, 


Love  Lives  Forever:    A  Medley  13 

Pleading  forever  for  the  souls  of  men, 
Wretched,  unfortunate,  despairing,  lost 
In  the  wide  wilderness  of  sin  or  shame ! 
Small  marvel,  then,  the  loveliest  of  earth, 
The  pure  and  beautiful  are  called  for  thee, 
O  Mother  of  the  Morning  Star  of  men ! 

At  first  she  loved  him,  and  she  loved  him  not, 
A  little  fitful,  like  an  April  day, — 
Cloud,  sunshine,  tears,  a  crocus,  and  then  spring; 
But  as  a  tender  plant,  by  slow  degrees, 
Grows  vigorous  in  the  luscious  airs  of  June, 
So  grew  her  love,  until  a  maiden  kiss, 
That  speaks  a  language  that  was  never  writ, 
Betrayed    her    heart.     Then    where    his    footstep 
strayed 

In  twilight  soft  she  lingered;  and  at  times, 

She  twined  her  loving  arms  about  his  neck, 

And  heard  the  story  Adam  told  to  Eve 

Beneath  the  singing  stars; — the  same  fond  tale, 

Old  as  the  hills,  yet  like  a  sunrise  new, 

That,  by  the  Northern  pine  and  Southern  palm, 

Retold  forever,  makes  the  old  world  young. 

And  sometimes  they  were  silent  and  made  love 

Hotter  than  speech ;  for  heart  aches  oft  have  hung 

Upon  the  modest  drooping  of  a  lash; 

And  lovers  have  a  language  all  their  own 

Of  covert  glances  stealing  from  the  eye, 

And  little  speeches  haply  big  with  fate; 

And  the  soft  touch  of  a  white  hand  can  make 

The  heart  strings  vibrate  like  a  smitten  harp, 

Breathing  in  tune  to  some  delightful  thought! 


14  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

Thus,  he  was  happy,  as  the  days  sped  on, 

And  drunk  with  joy!     Joy  filled  his  brimming  cup, 

As  rivers  fill  their  channels  to  the  brink 

When  fed  by  generous  rains.     So  he  must  needs 

To  some  dear  friend  reveal  the  ostrich  head 

Which  lay  concealed  by  one  lone,  trembling  leaf 

Of  slightest  circumspection.     So  one  night, 

As  we  were  strolling  in  familiar  paths, 

He  told  a  secret  all  beforehand  knew. 

And  ended  thus — "You  are  my  dearest  friend, 
Therefore,  congratulation,  sympathy, 
I  crave  from  you,  for  I  have  told  you  all 
The  vital  circumstance  that  makes  or  mars 
My  happiness  in  this  world,  and  the  world 
That  lies  beyond  our  vision,  into  which 
We  sometimes  long,  and  always  dread  to  go. 

And  nature  seems  to  have  a  thousand  tongues, 

And  every  tongue  is  lisping  to  my  soul. 

O  love  is  sweet,  how  sweet,  how  sweet  is  love! 

Now  every  red  rose  seems  to  blush  like  her, 

The  white  rose  whispers  of  her  purity, 

In  each  familiar  tree  there  is  a  voice 

That  sayeth  ever,  'O  how  fair  she  is, 

How  good,  how  true,  how  like  a  saint  she  is!' 

O  she  is  like  a  vision  beautiful, 

A  rose  unfingered  in  the  flush  of  morn; 

Joy  dances  in  the  dark  sheen  of  her  eyes 

As  sunshine  shimmers  in  a  shining  gem, 

A  bird-song  bubbling  from  her  happy  breast 

Goes  trilling  to  the  wild.     Where'er  she  waits 

By  grove  or  stream,  or  where  her  footsteps  fall, 


Love  Lives  Forever:    A  Medley  15 

There  is  a  hallowed  spirit  in  the  air 
That,  like  a  hidden  magnet,  draws  my  feet 

To  love's  enchanted  realm.     O  then  I  feel 

That  loveliness  and  beauty  fill  the  earth 

As  peace  fills  Heaven.     Life  broadens  like  the  sea — 

I  stand  upon  the  summit  of  the  world — 

The  glorious  hills  are  mine !     Straightway  I  see 

The  panorama  of  the  years  to  come 

Unroll  before  me  like  a  pictured  dream 

Wherein  her  face  is  standing  like  a  star; 

And  ever  through  the  changes  of  that  dream 

I  hear  the  ripple  of  her  laughter  run 

In  liquid  music  melting  to  a  close. 

O  not  for  passion  do  I  love  this  flower 

Unfolding  like  a  lily  to  the  dawn, 

But  for  the  white  soul  hidden  in  its  heart — 

The  sweet  intoxication  of  its  balm 

That  fills  my  spirit  like  a  breath  from  Heaven, 

With  spiritual  fragrance  that  abides 

To-day,  to-morrow  and  forevermore. 

You  think  I  over-praise  this  simple  maid, 
That  ardent  love  is  playing  loose  with  sense; 
But  who  can  praise  the  unplucked  rose  aright 
Or,  with  the  ragged  poverty  of  speech, 
Paint  nature  and  not  mar  it?     Ah,  not  one." 
"And  love — I  know  not  what  it  is,"  I  said, 
Thinking  to  throw  a  quibble  in  his  face 
To  cool  his  ardor:  "your  blood  is  all  a-flame, — 
Some    leman    you    have    lipped    whose   witchcraft 

strange 
Or  magic  spell  hath  bound  you  with  a  curl. 


16  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

If  I  should  prick  your  finger  it  would  bleed 
The  toxic  ichor  tipping  Cupid's  shaft. 

But  tell  me,  O  my  brother,  if  you  can — 

You  who  have  felt  it,  know  it,  feel  it  still, 

What  is  this  love  you  rant  of  in  your  sleep, 

This  fitful  fever  flushing  your  fair  face 

That  like  a  ruling  spirit  makes  you  daft, 

And  leads  you,  willy  nilly,  where  it  will 

And  stirs  your  blood  like  wine?    Whence  comes  its 


power 


What  is  its  essence?  Is  it  then  so  pure 
That  men  die  for  it  as  the  martyrs  died 
For  pure  religion?  Tell  me  if  you  can." 

"O  love  is  love,  nor  more  nor  less,"  said  he, 
"A  longing  satisfied,  a  gift  of  God, 
That  like  eternal  life,  we  take  on  trust 
And  pray  for  till  we  have  it.     Love,  like  life, 
Is  pain  and  pleasure  mixed,  a  mystery 
No  human  mind  can  analyze  or  solve, 
Though  it  were  Bacon  added  unto  Locke, 
Or,  for  a  moment,  hold  its  essence  in 
The  crude  alembic  of  philosophy." 

"Your  definition's  good,"  I  said — "go  on." 

"Last  night  we  looked  upon  the  lover's  moon, 
Which  sailed  the  heavens  like  a  splendid  ship 
With  golden  banners  set.  Fair  as  a  dream, 
The  blue  sky  hung  above  us,  and  the  stars, 
In  rank  on  rank  assembled.  At  our  feet 
The  winding  river  rippled  on,  and  made 


Love  Lives  Forever:    A  Medley  17 

The  same  monotonous  music,  sweet  and  low, 

That  soothed  the  children  of  primeval  woods. 

And  she,  who  sat  beside  me  in  the  joy 

Of  innocence,  was  only  half  of  earth ; 

She  seemed  a  being  of  another  world, 

The  fair  impersonation  of  my  dreams 

Of  love  on  happier  shores.     And  while  we  talked 

Of  love  and  life  and  all  they  meant  to  us, 

I  thought  myself  a  King  upon  a  throne 

Worth  all  the  thrones  in  all  the  lists  of  time ! 

My  ship  was  sailing  upon  golden  seas ; 

Fair  winds  had  kissed  her  to  the  harbor's  mouth ; 

I  saw  Leander,  toiling  to  his  tryst, 

Go  down  to  cruel  death,  and  Hero  stretch 

Her  wild  arms  unavailing  to  the  sea, 

Empty  of  love  as  autumn's  withered  husk! 

I  saw,  ere  Pompey's  eagles,  red  with  blood, 

Swooped  on  the  gilded  barges  of  the  Nile, 

The  lofty  Roman  and  the  dusky  Queen 

Giving  the  empire  of  the  world  for  love, 

One  long  embrace,  the  sword,  the  aspic,  sleep — 

And  pitied  them,  it  was  so  brief,  so  brief! 

And  with  life  all  before  me  in  long  dream, 

I  envied  not  Adonis  that  he  won 

Celestial  beauty  to  an  earthly  couch, 

Or  him  who  folded  Psyche  to  his  heart, 

The  peerless  god  with  his  immortal  bride. 

The  stars  were  throbbing  in  far  spaces  blue, 

A  glittering  host  aloft  the  summer  night; 

And  while  we  gazed  in  silent  wonderment 

They  seemed  to  recognize  the  love  of  earth, 

And  answer  it  with  their  immortal  love, 

Until  the  music  of  the  far-off  spheres 

From  Heaven  descending,  thrilled  our  human  hearts. 


1 8  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

If  some  fair  angel,  dropping  from  the  skies, 

Like  Hebe  fronted,  voiced  like  Israfel — 

Celestial  radiance  lingering  on  her  wings — 

Had  spoken  to  me  then  of  bliss  beyond 

Life's  flying  shadows  and  illusive  dreams 

I  would  have  kissed  my  own,  still  answering 

Her  soft,  dark,  deep  love-gleaming  eyes,  that  looked 

The  soul's  unutterable  thought,  and  bid 

The  angel  of  eternal  years  depart, 

And  leave  me  with  the  angel  of  a  day!" 


The  man  who  would  not  barter  half  a  year 
Of  drowsy  months  and  uneventful  days 
For  the  delirious  rapture  of  an  hour, 
In  which  the  fettered  and  surrounded  soul, 
Dreaming  of  wings  and  the  etherial  space 
Feels  not  its  prison  bars,  its  bonds  of  clay, — 
Passes  unheeded  wealth  of  precious  pearls, 
And  reckons  iron  better  than  fine  gold 
Because  he  gets  more  of  it  for  his  pains. 
Ascetic  as  the  Pilgrim,  salt  with  zeal 
And  stubborned  in  the  tangles  of  a  creed, 
Hugging  his  watchfire  in  the  wilderness 
When  chill  December  toned  the  biting  blast, 
He  chews  the  husk  and  lets  the  kernel  go. 
Life  never  pours  its  rich  red  wine  for  him 
In  bubbling  beakers  held  in  Joy's  white  hand, 
Whose  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  far  cold  heights 
Where  desolation  and  the  dead  abide, 
The  while  his  dumb  feet  tread  its  roses  down! 
But  blame  him  not.     If  each  soul  has  its  fate 
Foreknown,  predestined,  ere  the  Morning  Stars 
Burst  the  great  silence  with  majestic  song, 


Love  Lives  Forever:    A  Medley  19 

It  travels,  like  a  blinded  ox,  the  way 

It  cannot  choose  but  travel  to  the  end. 

He  may  be  wise,  if  wisdom  is  of  man ; 

He  may  be  wise,  if  it  indeed  be  true, 

This  rugged  creed  for  which  the  martyrs  died 

In  smoke  and  flame — and,  when  this  life  for  him 

Is  ended,  and  immortal  life  begun, 

Reap  sheaves  of  bliss  upon  some  other  star, 

With  no  regrets  for  this. 

Then  what  avails 

Industrious  prayer  or  any  noble  life, 
If  men  are  doomed  beforehand,  one  to  bliss, 
And  one,  an  outcast,  like  a  shackled  slave, 
Led  to  the  hopeless  gate  blind,  helpless,  dumb? 

O  what  a  Pilgrim's  burden  are  the  creeds 

That  barnacle  the  soul-ship  ere  it  sails 

Into  etherial  seas,  and  drape  its  flag 

With  the  long  weeds  of  woe !    O  men  may  cry, 

"Sheep  to  the  shambles !"    But  Christ  calls  the  lambs 

And  beckons  all  the  sheep — His  living  voice, 

God's  love  immortal  and  the  Golden  Rule! 

O  blind  and  beggared  are  the  little  creeds 

So  many,  and  so  many  so  unlike, 

For  which  men  die,  and  Angels  weep, 

One  honest  prayer,  to  Him  who  calmly  knows 

That  which  He  builded  from  Eternity, 

Outweighs  them  all,  though  writ  in  martyr's  blood, 

And  blazoned  on  the  long,  long  roll  of  time! 

O,  he  was  happy,  as  one  who  forgets, 
In  mad  pursuit,  the  stern  caprice  of  fate, 
Or  how  men  strive  for  what  they  covet  most, 
And  find  this  mocker  ever  stand  between 


2O  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

The  prize  and  the  pursuer,  till  at  last 
Endeavor  ends  with  silence  and  the  grave. 
So  he  was  happy.     But  as  time  went  on, 
I  saw  a  shadow  lengthen  on  his  face 
And  grow  a  cloud.     He  seemed  like  one  condemned 
To  wear  a  hateful  burden,  night  and  day, 
As  convicts  wear  the  chain  that  gnaws  the  flesh. 
A  hungry  trouble,  hanging  on  his  face, 
Marring  its  lines  of  beauty,  smote  him  sore 
As  though  December's  storm  of  frozen  rain 
Should  sudden  blight  the  fields  of  sunny  June 
And  lay  their  roses  waste.     He  walked  apart 
Like  one  in  dream.     He  saw  the  one  he  loved 
With  airy  laughter  go  her  simple  ways, 
With  now  a  word  and  reminiscent  smile, 
And  now  regardless  as  a  marble  queen, 
Face-fixed  in  chiselled  scorn,  but  heeded  not; 
Suns  rose  and  set,  and  still  he  heeded  not; 
Morn  came  and  went,  and  she  relented  not, 
Till  pain  grew  so  oppressive  at  his  heart 
That  it  must  speak  or  break!     So  sadly  then, 
He  came  to  me  in  tears,  with  halting  speech, 
And  told  me  all — how  fallen  were  his  gods. 
How  devils, — with  false  friendship  for  disguise, 
And  wearing  saintly  faces  like  a  mask, — 
Who  peddle  slander,  sandwiched  with  advice, 
And  pious  admonitions  of  old  saws 
With  sweet  religion  for  a  garniture, 
With  secret  poison  touched  her  artless  mind 
And  slew  love  with  suspicion.     How  one  said, 
"He  was  a  smiling  villain  in  a  cloak," 
And  one,  "he  was  a  rake  unworthy  her," 
And  one,  "he  was  a  mocker  of  the  creed 
Their  fathers,  on  old  Scotland's  bloody  fields, 


Love  Lives  Forever:    A  Medley  21 

Upheld  with  valiant  arms."     How  pondering  long 

The  tangled  tattle  that  the  sinuous  crew 

Mixed  for  her  brain  to  wile  her  heart  away, 

The  small  delinquencies  of  youth  let  loose, 

And  measured  them  by  what  the  harpies  said, 

Till  in  imagination  they  assumed 

The  magnitude  of  crime.     How  seeds  once  sown 

In  wantonness  of  his  unbridled  youth, 

Would  spring  up  tares  to  choke  the  flower  of  love 

And  vex  her  later  years.     How  then  she  thought 

She  had  done  wrong  in  love's  unreasoning 

To  let  its  burning  passion  override 

Wisdom,  advice,  deliberation,  friends, — 

That  he,  who  once  had  led  her  willing  feet 

Where  heart's-ease  grew  and  pulled  its  blooms  for 

her 

Might  be  a  base  deceiver,  after  all, 
Whose  touch  was  villainy,  whose  kiss  would  stain 
The  whiteness  of  her  soul,  and  then  renounce 
The  love  that  once,  above  all  else,  she  prized. 
How,  at  a  trysting  place  where  he  and  she 
Had  often  talked  of  love  and  all  it  meant, 
In  trance  or  revery,  he  sought  to  calm 
His  brain  bewildered,  and  subdue  his  grief, 
And  Sleep,  the  charmer,  touched,  as  soothe  as  Death, 
With  opiate  finger  his  unquiet  lips, 
And  he  forgot  he  was  a  living  soul, 
But  seemed  a  dreamer  in  a  land  of  dreams 
Where  no  wind  stirred,  nor  any  sound  was  made, 
But  Silence,  with  hush  finger  on  her  lips, 
And  light  feet  shod  with  wool,  stole  softly  on — 
Counting  the  sleepers.     And  then  one  he  knew, 
A  daughter  of  the  breezes  and  the  sun, 
Stole  to  his  side  and  passed  into  his  dream. 


22  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

Tears  gathered  in  the  corners  of  her  eyes 

And  trembled  on  their  lashes: — stooping  low, 

She  held  the  lamp  of  Psyche  to  his  face 

She  once  had  kissed,  and  would  have  kissed  again; 

Her  white  hand  trembled,  but  she  dropped  no  oil, 

Ere  Silence  came  and  beckoned  her  away. 

And  Nature  woke  him  at  her  own  sweet  will, 

And  all  his  vision  fled  into  the  dark. 

O,  if  there  is  a  little  homeless  soul, 

Debarred  by  Heaven  and  disowned  by  Hell, 

It  is  the  wretch  who  peddles  harmful  lies 

And  magnifies  small  faults  to  injury! 

Sooner  than  take  such  by  the  hand,  and  say, 
"My   friend,   good   morrow,   and   God   bless  your 

soul," 

I  would  affiliate  with  petty  thieves, 
Malicious  murderers, — assassins  hired 
To  stab  to  death  a  good  man  in  the  dark, — 
And  own  the  fiend  who  plies  the  midnight  torch 
As  very  special  brother  to  my  soul ! 

Thou  intermeddler, — transmigrant  of  Hell, 

Or  resurrected  relict  of  the  wretch 

That  taunted  Jesus  on  his  way  to  death, 

Unhappy  and  undying  as  that  Jew ! 

Thou  accident  of  Belial  and  a  witch 

In  some  lewd  revel  of  his  lecherous  crew, 

Thou  art  a  being  of  no  human  birth 

Else  God,  repenting  that  He  called  man  good 

Had  linked  old  Adam  with  the  crafty  snake, 

And  with  a  curse  redoubled,  bid  him  crawl 

Forever  on  his  belly  in  the  dust! 

For  the  poor  wretch  who  steals  the  widow's  mite 


Love  Lives  Forever:    A  Medley  23 

On  some  fair  pretext  of  a  pious  soul, 
And  feeds  and  fattens  on  the  orphans'  share, 
While  weary,  weeping,  jeered  at,  unconsoled, 
They  go  a-begging  in  the  streets  for  bread, 
We  may  have  some  poor  pity — but  for  thee, 
The  soul  of  honor  cries — alas,  in  vain — 
"Thou  leper,  get  thee  gone!" 


O,  she  was  changed : 

She  had  no  smile  for  him,  and  all  the  world 
Grew  blank  as  oecan  waste.    No  star  in  heaven, 
No  voice  of  bird  or  flower  or  stream  or  tree 
Could  comfort  him  who  once  had  loved  them  all. 
Hope  paled  and  flickered  as  a  light  burns  low, 
Then  flashes  up  a  moment  ere  it  dies. 


Even  then  he  could  not  see  the  sober  truth, 
As  others  saw  it  in  the  noonday  sun, 
But  went  about,  and  carried  in  his  hand 
The  confident  devotion  of  a  soul, 
And  loved  this  hesitating  angel  still 
With  all  he  was,  and  all  he  hoped  to  be 
In  this  world  or  the  world  which  is  to  come, 
And  met  for  truth  as  constant  as  a  star — 
For  neither  falsehood  or  a  thought  of  guile 
Had  lodgment  in  the  chambers  of  his  soul — 
A  faith  that  faltered  and,  betimes,  grew  cold 
With  blight  of  hesitation  and  a  doubt. 
The  love  that  hesitates  cannot  be  true, 
Nor  that  the  poets  ever  painted  blind 
Because  it  saw  no  faults,  but  stood  unswerved, 
Faithful  amidst  the  shocks  of  war  and  death. 


24  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

God  bless  the  woman  who  is  constant,  true, 

Steadfast,  one-thoughted,  unsuspicious,  kind; 

One  who  could  see  a  little  good  in  me, 

And  hold  fast  by  it  to  the  bitter  end ! 

One  who  would  never  take  my  frailties  up 

And  hold  them  gingerly  'twixt  dark  and  light, 

And  say,  "Behold  them !"  with  a  scornful  look. 

One — if  an  angel  came  to  her  and  breathed 

The  small  insinuation  of  a  hint, 

Or  laid  a  mild  suspicion  at  my  door, 

With  angered  front,  would  smite  him  on  the  face! 

He  sought  forgetfulness,  but  all  in  vain. 
One  face  was  ever  present  in  his  sleep; 
He  dreamt  that  in  a  cot  of  smiling  peace, 
With  blest  contentment  as  their  lifelong  guest, 
They  dwelt  together  'mid  their  native  hills, 
And  let  the  current  of  their  lives  flow  on 
Unvexed  by  trouble  to  the  sunset  sea 
That    drinks    all    life; — two    fountains,    but    one 
stream. 

And  then  a  spirit,  rising  from  the  shades 

Of  Lucifer's  dominions,  bleak  and  drear, 

Spread  over  him  its  wings  of  spectral  gloom, 

And  shouted  in  his  ear  till  he  awoke 

That     shibboleth     of     Hell,— "NEVER,     FOR 

EVER!" 

These  words  were  sadder  than  the  voice  of  Death 
Which  calls  a  mother  from  a  new-born  babe, 
Blasting  two  lives  at  once;  and  yet  he  dreamed, 
And  they  could  never  banish  that  bright  dream 
From  labyrinths  of  sleep's  disordered  realm; 
And  when  he  woke  he  wished  it  always  night, 


Love  Lives  Forever:    A  Medley  25 

That  he  might  sleep  forever — sleep  and  dream! 

For  one  he  loved  stood  ever  in  that  sleep, 

Dividing  it  from  the  still  sleep  of  death. 

He  loved  that  dream ;  and  once  he  wrote  upon 

The  fly-leaf  of  a  book  which  she  had  loved, 

And  sanctified  by  her  perusal  oft, 

The  sum  and  substance  of  it.    Here  it  is : — 

"O,  come  with  me,  dear  soul, 

Thou  breathing  dream,   thou  vision  of  delight; 
O,  walk  with  me,  while  Sleep,  with  stinted  dole 

Deals  out  the  calm,  still  night! 

"O,  let  me  fondly  press 

Thy  gentle  presence  to  my  heart  grown  cold, 
And  hold  thy  hand  in  one  long,  long  caress, 

As  in  the  days  of  old. 

"For  when  the  rising  sun 

Shall  bid  the  sleeping  world  in  light  rejoice, 
My  sands  of  happiness  will  all  be  run — 

I  shall  not  hear  thy  voice! 

"For  some  cold  Fate  hath  led 

Thy  feet  from  paths  which  I  must  walk  alone ; 
And  I  must  think  of  thee  as  of  the  dead 

Whom  I  may  call  my  own. 

"But  I  will  higher  prize 

Thy  love,  that  but  a  memory  can  be, 
Than  gold,  or  fame,  or  life — thy  pure  calm  eyes 

Will  ever  look  on  me." 


26  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

Ah,  vain  is  crying  for  a  poor  lost  love 
As  mourning  for  the  dead  to  call  them  back, — 
For  if  love  lives  it  lives  forevermore, — 
There  is  no  resurrection  if  it  dies. 

And  when  he  saw  her  daily  pass  him  by, 

With  cold,  calm  eyes  and  half  averted  face, 

Indifferent  as  the  winds  to  his  despair, 

His  brain  grew  blank  with  misery:  and  for  days 

Aching  upon  the  verge  of  madness  hung 

Resisting  brave;  so  an  encumbered  soul, 

With  horror,  at  the  perilous  brink  of  Hell 

Halts  with  a  shuddering  cry!     And  even  so 

A  wounded  bird  that,  fainting,  flutters  on 

The  edge  of  some  dark  precipice,  and  hears 

The  hollow-sounding  chasm,  and  the  floods 

Enraged,  that  fret  and  dash  and  foam  below, 

All  weak,  and  torn  and  helpless,  barely  clings 

Upon  the  sickly  shrubbery,  and  saves 

The  little  life  that  throbs  within  its  breast! 

His  soul  drank  in  the  bitterness  and  gall 
Of  twenty  years,  congealed  into  one  draught 
Of  most  accursed  rue!    As  the  maniac, 
Who,  shivering  with  passion  and  despair, 
Gnaws  at  the  flesh  of  his  own  arm,  and  drinks 
The  luscious  drops  of  blood  with  hellish  joy, 
Then  at  fantastic  and  pursuing  shapes 
Which  come  and  go  at  his  capricious  will 
He  stares,  and  flies,  then  turns  and  stares  again, 
With  speechless  eyes  and  foam-beslavered  mouth, 
His  heart,  forsaken,  preyed  upon  itself! 
O  then,  with  strangest  sense  of  coming  ill, 
He  felt  the  fountains  of  his  life  dry  up, 


Love  Lives  Forever:    A  Medley  2J 

As  by  a  drouth,  when  still  the  Dog  Star  climbs 

The  heavens  with  the  glaring  August  sun, 

To  rain  malaria  on  the  groaning  earth, 

The  waters  in  the  meadows  are  dried  up, 

And  Nature,  for  a  thousand  weary  miles, 

Lifts  all  her  pinched  and  shriveled  blades  to  God, 

And  piteously  in  silence  prays  for  rain! 


How  weary  are  the  toilsome  days, 
The  nights  to  us  how  lone  and  drear, 

How  little  do  we  find  for  praise 

'Mid   all   the   things   smiling   round    us   here, 

When  those  we  love,  as  twilight  loves  a  star, 

Are  gone  forever,  or  divided  far! 

Then  let  this  halting  song  be  sad, 

As  well  befits  so  sad  a  theme; 
If  I  should  make  its  music  glad 

I  must  retrace  life's  troubled  stream, 
And  stand  again  where  youth  and  hope  await 
The  laggard  years,  the  bright  decrees  of  fate. 

Then  I  could  touch  a  happier  string, 
And  all  its  notes  would  joyful  be; 

I  should  not  know  the  truth  I  sing, 
That  life  is  mostly  vanity! 

O  sunny  skies,  alas!    O  sparkling  streams! 

O  glowing  hopes  of  youth !     O  golden  dreams ! 


Time  after  time  Morn,  from  the  rosy  East, 
Stepped  glowing,  in  the  presence  of  the  sun 
Scattering  her  shining  pearls,  but  not  for  him ; 
Night  after  night  from  secret  cavern  stole, 
And  darkened  on  the  shoulders  of  the  world, 


28  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

But  brought  to  him  no  rest,  but  only  sleep 

By  fitful  dreams  and  mocking  ghosts  disturbed, 

Day  after  day,  he  heard  her  footstep  light, 

The  music  of  her  voice  about  him  still, 

The  ripple  of  her  laughter,  low  and  sweet, 

That  mocked  him  with  a  vision  of  old  days, 

The  resurrected  dream  of  yester  year 

That  should  be  dead  forever !     In  the  world 

Not  one,  he  thought,  was  leal,  nor  yet  in  Heaven ; 

That  even  friendship  was  a  breathing  lie 

Which  led  men  captive  ever,  and  betrayed! 

Then  the  old  Adam,  lingering  in  his  heart, — 
That  lingers  yet  in  every  human  heart, — 
Grew  huge  in  its  proportions,  and  essayed 
To  talk  to  him  of  vengeance!     Every  nerve 
Was  like  a  hissing  serpent's  forked  tongue 
That  darts  defiance  from  a  spiteful  coil! 
Anon,  he  took  his  pen,  which  long  had  been 
To  him  an  instrument  of  pleasant  toil, 
And  wrote  the  thoughts  that  crowded  on  his  brain, 
Demanding  utterance,  and  gave  to  her 
The  messages  he  never  could  recall — 
The  useless  words,  which  like  the  sower's  seed 
Fell  on  the  rock  and  stubble,  and  were  lost! 
Who  would  not  fain  recall  some  idle  word, 
Some  bitter  word  that  stung  a  faithful  heart, 
Or  widened  more  the  breach  of  broken  faith 
Which  else  had  healed?     Alas,  it  cannot  be, 
Not  God  Himself  could  call  such  truant  home. 

Sometimes  he  touched  on  a  familiar  chord 
And  wrote  love  stanzas;  yet  he  could  not  help 


Love  Lives  Forever:    A  Medley  29 

But  every  strain  should  breathe  of  love  forsworn. 

She  took   them  with   the  calm   indifference 

Of  level-fronting  eyes.     With  impish  hate, 

A  lurking  sneer  stood  in   their  orbs  and  mocked, 

And  when  his  back  was  turned,  and  he  was  gone, 

She  came  and  handed  them  to  me,  and  said, 

With  just  a  little  devil  in  her  eye 

And    scornful    laugh,    "See    what    this    madman 

writes!" 
I  took  the  paper  from  her  hand  and  read: — 


Light  of  my  soul,  where'er  your  footstep  goes, 
There  is  a  lure  I  cannot  help  but  follow, 
Not  as  a  spoiler  who  would  waste  the  rose 
And  leave  it  desolate  in  lonely  hollow, 
But  rather  as  one  smitten  sore  might  seek 
The  healing  Christ  to  touch  his  garment  fine, 
Whereby  the  pain  that  made  his  spirit  weak 
Might  vanish  at  the  glance  of  Love  Divine. 


ii 


O  then,  somewhere  beneath  the  watchful  stars 
Bide,  as  of  old,  a  happy  tryst  for  me, 
Your  voice  a  tremble  with  the  liquid  bars 
Of  some  sweet  strain  of  love's  dear  minstrelsy; 
That  spot  were  holy  as  with  incense  strown, 
For  every  trysting  where  true  lovers  meet 
Is  a  new  Eden  where  God  walks  alone 
And  calls  an  angel  down  to  guide  their  feet. 


30  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 


III 


In  vain!     In  vain!     Your  fond  caress  is  one 
With  Eve's  endearments  in  oblivion  cold, — 
One  with  the  rose  that  blushed  in  Babylon, 
The  rose  you  gave  me  scattered  to  the  mould ; 
Then  sing  no  more,  dear  robin,  sing  no  more,- 
And  veery,  let  your  vesper  song  be  still, — 
O  bittern  booming  on  the  marshy  shore! 
O  raven  croaking  on  the  dismal  hill! 


For,  since  I  heard  the  passion  of  your  voice, 

My  spirit  ear  is  closed  to  meaner  songs, 

And  would  not  hear  another  tongue  rejoice 

In  the  high  music  that  to  love  belongs, 

But  keeps  that  voice,  soul-shrined,  albeit  dumb, 

As  Peter  kept  the  call  on  Galilee 

That  made  him,  in  the  strenuous  years  to  come, 

Fisher  of  men  upon  an  alien  sea. 


And  from  the  awe-struck  spaces,  cold  and  far, 
The  brooding  night  fore-gathers  silently; 
In  the  gray  Heavens  I  see  Love's  steadfast  star 
Yearn  earthward  like  a  God,  but  not  to  me; 
The  past  is  a  remembrance  and  a  dream 
Of  burning  kisses  and  a  long  caress, — 
Ah,  let  me  drink  at  Lethe's  drowsy  stream 
The  balm  of .  sleep   and   deep  f orgetf  ulness. 


Love  Lives  Forever:    A  Medley  31 

And  where  her  footstep  fled,  he  followed  on 
Regardless,  as  one,  lost  in  a  wide  wood, 
Follows  the  ignis  fatuus  to  his  doom. 
And  once  she  turned,  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
In  hateful  silence,  bitterer  than  speech! 
Her  dark  hair,  falling  in  luxuriant  waves 
Upon  her  neck,  like  burnished  ebon  burned 
And  made  her  beauty  glow!     Her  narrowed  eyes 
Shot  naked  fire  that  burrowed  in  his  soul ! 
Scorn  gathered  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth, 
And  on  her  brow  defiance  sat  superb! 
Imperiously  she  stamped  her  little  foot, 
As  though  it  stood  upon  a  kingdom's  neck, 
Then,  rising  to  the  height  of  Nilus'  queen, 
She  smote  him  into  silence  with  swift  speech, 
As  virgin  Dian  struck  the  wildered  stag 
Entranced  to  death  with  beauty  and  a  barb. 

'Arthur,  I  hate  you!  hate  you!  stupid  fool!' 

And  then  the  very  atmosphere  he  breathed, 

Where  soft  the  purple  twilight  of  the  stars 

Fell  on  the  glorious  beauty  of  her  face 

Transfigured  in  fine  anger  half  divine 

Grew  sudden  like  the  atmosphere  of  Hell 

Stifling  a  lost  soul!     Then  suddenly 

He  started  from  his  painful  reverie, 

And  still  he  saw  her  anger  flashing  eyes, 

Black  as  a  raven  on  the  sunlit  snows, 

And  unrelenting  as  the  sword  of  fate 

Where    shouts    of    battle    ring.     And    still    they 

seemed 

To  him  like  stars  in  his  one  dream  of  Heaven 
With  light  that  drew  his  feet,  and  then  he  cast 
His  fatal  horoscope  of  life  from  them! 


32  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

And  moved  by  some  strange  impulse  then,  he  did 

The  deeds  he  would  not  do  for  length  of  days, 

Or  trumpet  breath  of  fame,  forever  blown, 

Or  all  the  hoarded  gems  of  hoary  time, 

And  thought  to  force  a  flame  that  could  not  burn 

By  stirring  its  cold  ashes.     Ah,  as  soon 

Call  back  the  breath  of  life  to  that  still  form 

Where  Death's  grim  seal  is  set,  and  ask  its  lips, 

Pale,  silent,  dumb,  to  speak  of  love  again! 

The  fairest  flower  that  ever  bloomed  on  earth, 
Whose  smell  and  touch  are  life's  amenities, — 
The  flower  that  blossoms  over  mutual  hearts, 
And  sends  its  roots  down  to  their  lowest  depths 
And  draws  its  double  nourishment   from  both, — 
Had  withered;  and  no  mortal  power  could  lift 
Its  drooping  petal  up,  its  life  restore! 
And  when  his  halting  reason  had  returned, 
And  sat  again  supreme  upon  its  throne, 
He  saw  it  all, — and  turned  his  steps  away, 
Chastened  and  sad,  but  with  a  great  resolve 
To  stand  henceforth  in  Truth's  dim  battle  line, 
And  fight,  for  her,  the  conflict  to  the  end! 
'Farewell,  farewell!'     He  took  me  by  the  hand, 
And  could  have  wept,  had  tears  availed  him  then; 

He  gazed  upon  his  stern  old  sire,  and  saw 
The  lines  of  sadness  on  his  aged  face, 
And  prayed  a  blessing  on  his  silver  hair; 
He  kissed  the  patient  mother,  who  had  borne 
Him  in  her  arms,  and  soothed  his  infant  cry — 
He  saw  the  great  love  standing  in  her  eyes, 
Her  face,  a  benediction  and  a  prayer, 
Yearning  above  him  with  a  long  farewell, 


Love  Lives  Forever:    A  Medley  33 

Then  crossed  the  threshold  that  shall  nevermore 
Sound  with  his  coming  feet,  and  to  the  whirl 
Of  towns  and  cities  bent  his  weary  way, 
Bearing  his  burden  with  him. 

Evermore, 

Strange  faces  were  about  him,  and  new  scenes 
Rose  on  his  vision  dim.     But  still  unrest 
Was  his  familiar.     In  the  past  he  roamed 
With  lofty  souls  in  labyrinths  of  song 
And  heard  their  wondrous  music,  sounding  still; 
With     Wordsworth,     living     his     deep-thoughted 

dream, 

And  Milton  blind,  whose  inward  vision  saw 
Creation's  dawn  and  Judgment's  dread  eclipse; 
With  Byron  brave,  and  him  whose  pregnant  brain 
Forestalled  the  poets  of  all  coming  time, 
And  Keats,  the  dreamer,  dying  while  he  sang 
A  swan  song  of  Endymion  and  the  gods, 
The  sweetest  voice  that  ever  England  heard. 
Of  future  years  that  were  his  friends,  he  dreamed, — 
He  bid  them  welcome  and  a  glad  farewell, 
And  for  each  wrinkle,  written  on  his  brow, 
In  token  of  their  presence  as  they  passed, 
They  soothed  an  aching  sorrow  in  his  soul 
And  laid  its  ghost  forever.     Then  to  him 
The  bitterness  of  unshed  tears  became 
A  fragrance  and  a  memory,  and  he  grew 
Like  one  content;  yet,  sometimes  to  his  brain 
The  old  thoughts  would  return ;  old  faces  come, 
Like  guests  unbidden  where  no  feast  is  made, 
Expectant  hunger  staring  in  their  eyes; 
And  then,  perchance,  a  tear  would  dim  his  own 
At  thoughts  of  other  days;  and  then  a  voice, 
That  once  in  music  trembled  on  his  ear, 


34  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

Would,  like  a  spirit,  steal  into  his  soul 

And  stir  his  inmost  being.     Then  to  me 

He  oft  would  send  a  greeting,  and  anon, 

A  transcript  from  the  pages  of  his  life, 

The  thoughts  that  came  unbidden  as  a  dream,- 

His  revery  in  the  far  and  alien  land. 

Here  are  the  messages  he  sent  to  me. 


IF? 

When  time  for  us  is  done, 
If  we  should  meet,  upon  some  far-off  shore, 

Beyond  the  stars  and  sun, 
Should  we  recall  the  days  that  are  no  more, 

Their  fitful  courses  run? 

If  it  indeed  were  Heaven, 
With  all  the  bliss  by  priest  or  saint  foretold, 

A  largess  to  us  given, 
I  could  recall  an  hour,  a  thousand-fold 

O'ermatching  this  one  even : 

When,  by  thy  window-tree, 
We  plighted  faith  forever  to  be  true, 

And  you,  love,  smiled  on  me, 
While,  from  a  dwarf,  my  soul  to  thine  upgrew 

And  filled  itself  of  thee! 

Or  if,  in  Hell  below, 
The  fiery  waves  of  utmost  wrath  should   roll 

In  one  wide  overthrow, 
I  could  recall,  to  ease  my  burning  soul, 

An  hour  of  bitterer  woe: 

When  love  that  summer  morn 
You  said  would  be  your  star  forevermore, 

Lay  in  the  dust  forlorn, 
A  Sodom  apple,  bitten  to  the  core, 

A  thing  for  jest  and  scorn. 

35 


ON  A  PICTURE  SET  IN  GOLD 

0  still  imprisoned  face,  that  crossed 
My  path  when  I  could  well  rejoice 

In  love's  bright  dream,   I  know  the  voice 
That  made  thee  sweet,  to  me,  is  lost! 

For  those  who  live  we  grieve  the  most — 
Not  dead,  but  lost!     O  saddest  word 
Lips  ever  uttered,  or  ear  heard; — 

The  living  only  are  the  lost. 

At  least,  we  of  our  dead  are  sure, 

We  know  the  last  words  that  they  spoke, 
We  know  the  living  light  that  broke 

Upon  their  faces  death  made  pure! 

These  change  not  with  the  changing  years 
However  we  may  change  or  fail, 
But  stand  in  memory's  guarded  pale 

As  fixed  as  the  eternal  spheres. 

1  know  not  where  her  pleasures  be; 
What  home  is  gladdened  by  her  smile; 
What  music  soft  she  hears,  the  while 

I  hear  the  music  of  the  sea. 

I  am  a  wanderer  now;  I  stand 
Upon  the  deck  and  woo  the  gale; 
Loud  winds  are  groaning  in  the  sail 

That  bears  me  to  a  distant  land. 

And  when  beneath  the  toiling  sea 
The  burning  sun  goes  down  to  rest, 
I  dream  of  her,  that  she  is  blest, — 

Ah,  does  she  ever  dream  of  me? 
36 


On  a  Picture  Set  in  Gold  37 

I  pray  not  if  it  should  recall 

One  foolish  word  or  sung  or  said, 

One  deed  that  should  be  with  the  dead 

Where  blind  oblivion  covers  all. 

And  this  is  all  my  hand  may  keep 

Of  one,  the  breathing  soul  of  grace, 

A  light,  that  having  kissed  her  face, 
Lies  in  this  golden  cell  asleep. 

But  it  recalls  the  happy  days 

To  which  our  years  like  streams  were  set, 
When  love  and  honor  hailed  and  met, 

Along  the  pleasant  woodland  ways. 

Then  we  were  careless  of  the  past, 
But  builded,  by  delightful  streams, 
Our  castle   in  the  land  of  dreams, 

Where  peace  should   dwell  and   love  should   last. 

We  watched  the  dark  night's  sullen  face 

Grow  smiling  with  a  splendid  star, 

While  Venus,  from  the  mists  afar, 
Rose  queenly  to  her  lofty  place. 

We  ~?aw  the  lover's  moon  outswing 

Above  the  blue  Joe  English  Hill; 

While  every  voice  of  breeze  and  rill 
Seemed  in  our  very  hearts  to  sing. 

She  then  was  Nature's  worshipper; 

She  loved  each  budding  shrub  and  tree; 

She  showed  her  fairest  flowers  to  me, 
But  then,  I  only  looked  at  her! 


38  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

I  said, — "Behold  the  moon  on  high, 
She  seems  to  smile  on  love's  emprise ;" 
And  she,  with  passion  in  her  eyes, 

"Love  is  so  sweet  it  cannot  die!" 

"This  is  the  lover's  moon,"  she  said, 
"See!     Like  a  queen  she  walks  the  sky! 
She  speaks  of  love  that  cannot  die 

In  us,  whatever  else  be  dead." 

Love,  then  we  thought  no  fate  could  kill, 
Nor  age  abate  its  ardent  breath ; 
That  Love  was  lord  of  life,  and  Death 

But  made  his  kingdom  wider  still! 

But  I  have  learned  that  hearts  can  be 
All  fair  without  but  false  within, 
And  beauty's  gilding  hide  the  sin 

Of  lips  forsworn  to  constancy. 

And  knowledge  widens.     Oft  since  then 
I've  seen  men  fondly,  wisely  trust 
An  Eden-flower  of  frailty,  dust, — 

Also  the  sinuous  ways  of  men. 

Likewise  that  other  hands  will  press 
To  eager  lips  the  fruit  of  gold, 
That  tasted,  turns  to  ashes  cold 

And  leaves  a  lingering  bitterness. 

For,  by  the  certain  law  of  God, 
We  feel  no  pain,  however  sore, 
But  men  have  felt  its  pangs  before, — 

The  wine-press  not  alone  is  trod. 


On  a  Picture  Set  in  Gold  39 

And  this  is  Nature's  kindest  plan, 

That  every  sorrow  there  can  be, 

And  every  joy, — one  is  for  thee, 
And  one  is  for  thy  brother  man. 

Hail,  and  farewell:  my  plaint  is  done; 

My  soul  shall  be  content  to  smart, 

If  I  may  kindle  in  my  heart 
Courage  to  suffer  and  pass  on. 

For,  somewhere  on  these  human  shores 
Where  beat  the  ceaseless  waves  of  time, 
Where  men  are  covered  with  the  grime 

Of  ancient  sins  and  modern  sores, — 

Aye,  somewhere  I  shall  find  expressed, 
In  language  that  my  soul  can  read, 
Kind  Nature's  promise,  guaranteed, 

Of  peace  in  some  fair  land  of  rest. 


THE  DAYS  OF  LONG  AGO 

O,  Time,  upon  whose  viewless  wing 
The  fleeting  seasons  haste  away, 

Instruct  my  truant  Muse  to  sing, 
A  better  land,  a  brighter  day. 

The  present  may,  perchance,  beguile 
My  soul,  with  sorrow  overcast, 

And  lure  me  from  a  love-lit  smile 
Beleaguered  in  the  dim-walled  past. 

But  I  would  gladly  now  resign 
All  that  the  future  has  for  me, 

For  one  brief  hour  of  sweet  lang  syne, 
One  kiss  beneath  our  trysting  tree. 

But  that,  alas,  can  never  be, 

The  maid,  and  eke  the  tree  is  gone: 
And  unrelenting  Destiny, 

With  fateful  finger,  beckons  on. 

On  to  the  shadows  dim,  unknown, 
The  silence  of  unsounded  seas, 

Where  never  notes  of  love  are  blown, 
Nor  ever  heard  the  homeland  breeze. 

And  now,  the  shadows,  pale  and  dim, 
Before  my  mortal  vision  rise; 

The  years,  like  banished  seraphim, 
Are  marching  by  me  in  disguise. 
40 


The  Days  of  Long  Ago  41 

The  past  is  past.     What  boots  it  now, 

Since  time  cannot  reverse  its  flight, 
And  Fate's  cold  hand  is  on  my  brow, 

To  cry  in  the  dead  ear  of  Night — 

'O  Night,  revive  my  hopeless  dead, 

And  stir  love's  ashes  into  flame?' 
Can  Night  unsay  a  word  that's  said, 

And  written  as  God  writes  His  Name? 

Yet  sometimes  in  these  darker  hours 

I  dream  of  better  days  in  trust, 
But  when  I  reach  to  pluck  the  flowers 

Of  youth,  they  turn  to  senseless  dust! 

New  England !  on  thy  glorious  hills 
I  stand  in  thought,  a  moment  free; 

I  hear  the  music  of  thy  rills, — 
Nature's  low  notes  of  liberty! 

The  winds  are  breathing  in  the  pines, 
The  thrushes  call  from  tree  to  tree, 

And  one  dear  voice,  where  love  reclines, 
Is  softly  calling — calling  me. 

But  ah!  the  witching  vision  flies, 
And  truth  is  not  the  thing  it  seems; 

How  quickly  fades  the  light  that  lies 
Along  the  splendid  hills  in  dreams! 

And  hark!     I  hear  the  sails  astir, 

The  stranger  hills  are  calling  me; 
And  all  my  sensuous  dreams  of  her 

Grow  misty  like  this  dreamy  sea. 


42  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

But  love  that  travels  long  and  far 
Will  reach  the  homeland  shore  at  last, 

And  love  that  climbs  from  earth  to  star 
Will  find  its  own  and  hold  it  fast. 


So  ends  my  tale,  with  hearts  dissevered  wide: 
One  'midst  green  valleys  of  the  rock  and  line, 
Surrounded  by  the  mighty  hills,  that  lift 
Their  heads  majestic  to  the  face  of  Heaven, 
Shoulder  the  dark  gray  summer  mists,  and  wear 
The  shining  clouds  like  mantles  of  the  gods; 
And  one,  a  wanderer  by  far-off  seas, 
'Mid  flowery  vales  and  palm  groves  of  the  South. 

They  fared  together  for  a  little  space 

In  life's  short  circuit  to  the  couchant  grave; 

They  plighted  faith,  with  pledges  each  to  each, 

And  vows  of  mutual  love;  then  at  the  beck 

Of  hateful  circumstances  which  men  call  fate 

They  parted,  as  a  dam-obstructed  rill, 

On  some  far  hilltop  brooding  in  the  rain, 

Divides  its  silver  stream.     One  to  warm  seas 

By  happy  rivers  laughing  in  the  sun, 

One  to  dark  forests  and  the  pools  that  sleep 

In  silent  glens. 

God  is  their  Judge,  not  I. 
If  I  could  judge  them  I  could  also  blot 
That  which  is  written  on  the  face  of  time, 
That  God  is  God  forever,  and  the  Judge; 
That  justice  will  not  die,  or  promise  fail, 
While  stand  the  hills  or  roll  the  heavenly  spheres! 


The  Days  of  Long  Ago  43 

What  man,  presumptuous  and  over-bold, 
Essays  to  judge  the  human  heart,  or  weigh 
Its  impulse  or  its  motive  in  a  scale, 
When  no  man  knoweth  wisdom,  what  it  is  ? 
Or  say,  Thou  fool?  or  moralize,  or  preach? 
O,  who  shall  lay  his  fingers  on  its  keys 
That  tremble  with  a  thousand  passions  wild, 
Which  grew  from  others'  planting,  and  declare 
Its  music,  tested  by  a  human  scale, 
Breathes  not  in  harmony  with  nature's  law, 
But  the  kind   Maker  of  the  instrument, 
Who,  knowing  all,  is  merciful  and  just? 

And  here  I  leave  my  friend;  but  in  my  heart, 

I  hold  his  memory  green ;  and  all  his  thoughts 

I  cherish  as  a  string  of  precious  pearls 

Which  I  have  counted  many,  many  times 

With  tenderness  and  love.     And  ere  I  die, 

I'll  take  him  by  the  hand — read  in  his  face 

The  record  written  by  the  stormy  years, 

And  hear  his  words  anew.     These  I  will  plant 

In  sacred  gardens  of  my  memory, 

By  that  green  spot  where  lie  the  flowers  of  youth. 

O  Memory,  companion  of  my  soul, 

Unchanging  in  thy  fealty  as  a  star, 

Keep  thou  the  charge  I  give!     Thou  art  my  love, 

Thy  gentle  voice  is  ever  at  my  ear, 

Now  glad  with  joy,  recalling  happy  days, 

Now,  like  a  'wildered  thing  uncomforted, 

With  reminiscent  sorrow  sad  and  low. 

Holding  my  gathered  harvest,  scant  and  poor, 

Dead  faces  and  dear  voices  that  are  gone, 


44  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

With  youth's  long  dream  and  love's  delicious  tears, 

Thou  standest  by  me  with  thy  calm,  still  face, 

Morning  and  evening,  and  thy  hands  are  rilled 

With  relics  of  the  past,  and  give  me  back 

The  gems  I  had  forgotten  or  mislaid, — 

The  dear  forget-me-nots  of  other  days. 

Reproach  and  benediction  on  thy  lips 

Like  gall  and  wine  are  mixed:  anon  thou  art 

A  nemesis  with  cold  and  steady  eyes 

Burning  in  silent  scorn.     The  mask  falls  off, 

Thou  seemest  like  a  fair  and  patient  nun, 

Counting  a  rosary  of  dew-kissed  buds 

With  earnest  face  and  moving  lips  of  prayer, 

And  then  a  halo  gathers  round  thy  brow, 

A  loveliness  and  beauty  not  of  earth, 

And  thou  art  standing  by  yon  grassy  slope 

Counting  the  flower-decked  graves  that  peaceful  lie 

As  couchant  lambs.     And  flowers  are  in  thy  hands. 

Ah,  sweet  and   still!     These  be   the  flowers  that 

grew 

In  other  years  and  gardens  gone  to  waste ; 
Withered  and  dead,  but  to  my  dreaming  soul 
They  yet  are  fragrant  with  a  buried  June, 
And  speak  to  chill  December  of  the  days 
That  will  return  no  more. 

I  think  when  Sleep,  the  merciful, 

Is  bending  over  me, 

With  magic  in  her  touch  to  dull 

All  aches  of  memory, 

If  I  should  wake  in  Morning  Lands 

To  greet  the  friends  I  knew, 

And  clasp  again  their  loving  hands 

To  say  no  more,  adieu, — 


The  Days  of  Long  Ago  45 

And  one  should  ask:     "Dost  love  me  yet 

As  once  on  time's  far  shore? 
Shall  we,  forgetting  earth,  forget, 

Love  lives  forevermore?" 
My  eager  soul  would  fly  to  meet 

The  angel  of  my  dreams 
And  she  should  lead  my  way-worn  feet 

By  Heaven's  delightful  streams. 


A  BATTLE  CALL.     1862 

March!     March!    There  is  trouble! 

Ye  sons  of  the  North ! 
The  blast  of  the  bugle 

Is  calling  you  forth! 
Lest  Fatherland  perish 

In  Liberty's  throes, 
For  sons  it  would  cherish 

Are  traitors  and  foes! 

March!     Freedom   is   waking 

The  sons  of  the  brave 
To  fight  while  she's  breaking 

The  chains  of  the  slave! 
To  fight  for  the  gory 

Stained  hope  of  the  world, 
The  fore-flame  of  glory 

Our  fathers  unfurled! 

March!  where  the  blade  shivers, 

Brave  sons  of  the  free! 
Go  as  your  wild  rivers 

Leap  down  to  the  sea! 
Where  Tyranny  gathers 

Its  hosts  for  the  fight, 
Strike!     Strike  like  your  fathers, 

And  God  speed  the  right! 

March!     What  is  freedom  worth 

If  your  hearts  quail? 
Where  is  the  hope  of  earth 

If  your  cause  fail? 
Go,  ask  the  slave  to  tell — 

Bleeding  and   sore! 
Go,  ask  the  dead  that  fell 

On  red  fields  of  gore! 
46 


A  Battle  Call  47 


March!     With   the   Starry   Flag, 

The  red  flame  of  war! 
Down  with  the  Slavers'  rag 

On  Liberty's  shore! 
Strike  till  the  bond  is  free 

And  his  chains  sever! 
Strike  for  Humanity 

And  Union  forever! 


FREDERICKSBURG 

The  conflict  ceases!     Traitors,  wave 
Your  skull  and  cross-bones  flag  of  Hell, 

Above  this  graveyard  of  the  brave 

Where  Freedom  tripped  and  heroes  fell ! 

Let  Slavery  exult  awhile 

And  shake  its  reeking  chains  unriven ; 
God  pours  upon  its  burning  pile 

The  blood  of  men,  the  wrath  of  Heaven ! 

And  Freedom  ever  wins  the  fight, 
However  hard,  however  long, 

And  Justice's  mailed  hand  will  smite 
The  crest  that's  panoplied  with  wrong. 

There  yet  are  patriots  in  this  land, 
The  grandsons  of  old  Lexington, — 

From  Maine  unto  the  Golden  Strand, 
In  wrath,  their  heart-throbs  beat  as  one ! 

The  plow  shall  rust  in  fallow  field, 
The  hammer  on  the  anvil  lie; 

And  farm  and  shop  and  mart  will  yield 
True  men  to  fight,  brave  men  to  die! 

From  mountains  of  the  snows  they  come, 
From  cities  by  the  river's  mouth, 

With  bugle  blast  and  rolling  drum, 
And  gleaming  rifles  pointing  south! 
48 


Fredericksburg  49 

A  mighty  nation  sends  them  forth, 

The  Paladins  of  Liberty; 
And  black  or  white,  or  South  or  North, 

Men  shall  be  free!     Men  shall  be  free! 

Their  slogan  on  the  northwind's  breath 
Is  loud  with  vengeance!     Hark,  their  cry, 

Stern  as  the  fiat  of  grim  Death 
"One  flag,  one  law,  one  destiny!" 


NOON  BY  LAKE  SUNAPEE 

'Neath  groves  of  maple  and  the  tall  plumed  pine 
By  Sunapee's  fair  shore  we  linger  long, 
The  low  waves  shimmer  in  the  noonday  shine 
And  on  the  shingle  lip  a  plaintive  song. 
About  their  nests  the  crooning  robins  throng 
In  leafy  coverts  under  branches  cool; 
The  plodding  farmer,  waiting  for  the  gong, 
Bathes  his  swart  forehead  in  the  shaded  pool ; 
Fair  as  the  blue  depths  of  the  quiet  sky 
The  glistening  waters  spread  before  the  eye, 
While  small  white  clouds,  slow  sailing  from   the 

west, 

Are  mirrored  in  their  bosom  lovingly, 
Below  where  new-born  lilies  lie  at  rest 
Like  affluent  pearls  on  some  fair  lady's  breast. 

0  loveliest  day  the  summer  brings  to  me 
With  dreamy  air  delicious  as  old  wine, 

1  hear  the  cricket  and  the  droning  bee, 
And  on  far  hills  the  peaceful  low  of  kine. 
Hark!  the  partridge,  the  impetuous  drummer, 
Thrumming  his  love  call  in  the  dim  old  wood, 
Ruffling  the  stillness  of  its  solitude! 

The  meadow  lark,  low  in  the  scented  clover, 
Holds  converse  with  the  matron  of  his  brood ; 
Over  long  fields,  the  gray  disporting  plover 
Bends  piping  to  the  ground,  an  arc  of  song; 
The  crow  upon  the  mountain  calleth  long, 
Or  watcheth,  from  his  signal  perch  forlorn, 
His  consort  pilfering  the  planted  corn, 

50 


Noon  by  Lake  Sunapee  51 

Oh,  how  delightful  is  the  mountain  air 

Cooled  on  thy  crested  water,  Sunapee! 

We  wonder  if  Lake  Leman  is  more  fair, 

More  sweet  the  gales  of  storied  Araby. 

We  breathe  the  breath  of  lilies  and  the  balm 

Of  woods  forever  green,  while  from  the  calm, 

Like  sounds  of  far-off  voices  drawing  near, 

The  coming  of  the  summer  wind  we  hear 

In  the  long  branches  rising  like  a  psalm 

Of  peace  upon  thy  shore ;  more  sweet,  more  clear 

Than  song  of  angels  to  the  morning  star, 

When,  from  the  rifted  darkness  of  old  time, 

Kearsarge  and  Sunapee  arose  sublime 

To  watch  thy  face  forever,  from  afar. 


THE  BUILDERS 


A  simple  life  is  a  continuous  prayer, 
And  love  makes  holy  whatsoever  place; 
Good  deeds,  like  angels  pleading  unaware, 
Call  sweet  compassion  from  the  Throne  of  Grace ; 
And  all  are  building,  while  the  swift  years  roll, 
Mansions  to  rest  in  for  the  weary  soul. 


ii 


As  rivers,  running  to  an  unknown  deep, 
Sing  ever  of  the  green  hills  and  the  sod, 
So  they  plead  on,  even  while  our  senses  sleep, 
And  murmur  at  the  listening  ear  of  God 
Perpetual  prayer,  uplifting  to  the  skies 
The  heart's  desire,  in  love's  low  litanies! 


in 


Then   build,    O   soul,   your   mansions   while  ye 

may, — 

Not  airy  visions  dreamers  build  in  Spain 
That  wane  to  ruin  and  so  fade  away, 
Not  on  the  shore  where  angry  seas  complain 
And  fret  the  shifting  sands,  and  topple  low 
That  which  is  built  for  worldly  pomp  and  show. 
52 


The  Builders  53 


IV 


But  on  the  rock  of  Honor,  day  by  day, 
With  good  deeds  build  it  to  the  vaulted  skies ; 
With  pure  thoughts  garnish  all  its  rooms  of  clay 
And  make  it  clean  within,  and  fit  to  rise 
Above  the  wrecks  of  time ;  then  steadfast,  pure, 
The  storm  wrack  and  the  floods  it  will  endure. 


THE  PLAINT  OF  THE  PESSIMIST 

Where  farest  thou,  unfettered  soul, 
Alone,  unhoused,  in  space  forlorn? 

To  Lethe's  stream  and   Sleep's  control 

Or  some  fair  Dreamland  bright  with  morn? 

O  question  vain!     When  thou  art  free 

No  mortal  call  can  summon  thee. 

No  voice  from  the  unholy  earth 

Can  reach  thy  place  where'er  it  be, 

Nor  being  of  immortal  birth 

Bear  love's  fond  message  back  to  me! 

Betwixt  me  and  thy  vantage-ground 

Is  neither  human  sight  nor  sound! 

Out  of  the  dark  a  helpless  cry — 

Into  the  dark  the  shadows  flit; 
This  is  the  sum  of  certainty 

On  learning's  blazoned  pages  writ; 
And  God  forever  holds  the  key 
To  life's  unriddled  mystery. 

We  trace  the  stars  in  orbits  wide, 
The  paths  celestial  systems  run, 

In  prisms  of  crystal  rock  divide 
The  golden  lances  of  the  sun, 

But  Death's  stern  secret  still  is  hid 

Beneath  the  dreadful  coffin  lid. 

We  search  the  heavens  to  find  out  God, 

The  cosmic  mists  to  find  out  man; — 
The  daisies,  springing  from  the  sod, 
54 


The  Plaint  of  the  Pessimist  55 

The  stars  in  God's  eternal  plan 
Baffle  alike  the  toilsome  quest 
And  spurn  the  longing  of  the  breast. 


Sphinx-like,  the  mountain's  face  of  stone 
Stares  on  forever,  still  as  sleep! 

Immortal  stoic,  mute,  alone, 
Majestic  as  the  awful  deep, 

It  will  not  answer  when  we  cry, 

It  will  not  notice  when  we  die! 


So  dumb  the  earth,  so  deep  the  skies! 

So  vain  this  eager,  human  cry! 
The  mole  that  in  his  burrow  dies 

Is  wise  as  our  philosophy, 
Except  from  some  high  world,  a  gleam 
Breaks  on  the  darkness  of  our  dream. 


Unstayed  the  wheels  of  time  go  round, 
In  serried  files  the  cycles  march — 

No  certain  truth  but  death  is  found 
Beneath  the  heavens'  far-bending  arch ; 

No  victor  wears  a  crown  of  bay 

Unchallenged  till  the  Judgment  Day! 

And  yet,  this  man  that's  born  to  die 
And  be  companion  with  the  clod, 

Is  also  born  with  wings  to  fly 

And  longings  for  the  things  of  God! 

With  brain  to  fathom  nature's  laws 

And  from  effect  divine  the  cause. 


56  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

He  binds  the  thunderbolts  of  Jove, 
Giants  that  toil  in  voiceless  pain ; 

Neptune,  with  whom  the  Ancients  strove, 
Gives  him  the  lordship  of  the  Main! 

False  gods  before  his  face  have  fled, — 

His  heel  is  on  the  Dragon's  head! 

But,  though  he  stays  the  hurricane 
And  binds  the  cyclone  to  his  cars, 

And  with  the  marvel  of  his  brain 
Unfolds  the  secrets  of  the  stars, 

The  secret  of  his  living  breath 

Is  locked  in  the  closed  hand  of  Death! 

No  matter  what  we  search  or  know,  • 
Or  what  attained  summits  teach — ; 

Beyond  us  ever  lies  the  glow 

Of  suns  and  systems  out  of  reach! 

Orion  and  his  glittering  train 

Sweep  but  the  verge  of  God's  domain! 

The  source  is  higher  than  the  stream, 
And  God  is  greater  still  than  we, 

We  only  stand  at  gaze  in  dream 
Upon   the  margent  of  the  sea, — 

And  watch  our  freighted  galleons  tryst 

With  Death  in  the  eternal  mist. 


THE  STAR  OF  THE  OPTIMIST 

Not  what  we  would  He  giveth  us, 
We  cannot  wield  His  fire  or  sword, 

Nor  grasp  His  mighty  plans,  and  thus 
Make  ours  the  glory  of  the  Lord! 

But  all  we-  need  is  ours  by  grace 

Until  we  meet  Him  face  to  face. 

Above  the  plains  of  Bethlehem 
He  set  His  signal  Star  of  Peace, 

The  splendor  of  Night's  diadem 

Whose  omen  bright  will  never  cease, 

For  Christ,  the  Lord  of  Life,  was  born 

Beneath  that  herald  Star  of  Morn. 

He  walks  the  ages  dark  with  death — 
With  murder,  lust,  and  hellish  greed, 

With  love  unmeasured  pitieth 
The  sons  of  men  in  sorest  need, 

And  lets  His  dear  compassion  fall, 

Like  Heaven's  sweet  rain,  upon  us  all. 

We  cannot  see  His  bleeding  hands 

Nor  touch  His  pregnant  wounds  again; 

But  we  can  see  the  glorious  lands 

Made  great  by  what  He  taught  to  men; 

The  light  nor  Rome  nor  Athens  saw, 

Freedom,  religion,  order,  law. 

The  stars  which  led  the  Magi's  feet 

Swings  low  its  beauteous  flame  no  more, 
No  more  Angelic  Choirs   repeat 
57 


58  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

Heaven's  Peace-Song  on  Judea's  shore; 
But  Faith,  in  Love's  high  realm  afar, 
Still  hears  that  Song, — still  sees  that  Star! 

O  fairest  star  in  all  the  skies, 
O  guidon  that  God  halloweth, 

Men  turn  to  thee  with  longing  eyes 
Bewildered  in  the  vales  of  death, 

And  catch  far  gleams  of  heavenly  hope 

For  eyes  that  fail,  for  hands  that  grope. 

And  Thou,  who  art  the  Lord  of  Light, 
Lord  of  the  star  that  hailed  Thy  birth, 

Who  saw  from  Calvary's  tragic  height 
The  long,  sad  travail  of  the  earth, 

Touch  our  blind  eyes  that  we  may  see 

The  Zenith  Star  of  Liberty! 


THE  VOICE  OF  LOVE  DIVINE 

I  said  upon  the  glad  new  year, 

"O  soul  self-willed, 
To  that  far  height  of  vision  clear, 
From  which   immortal  shores  appear, 

How  canst  thou  build? 

"How  best  a  victor,  canst  thou  rise 

O'er  death  and  time? 
Above  thee  hang  the  crystal  skies, 
But  mists  of  earth  are  in  thine  eyes, 

Thy   robes  are  grime!" 

My  soul,  confounded,  vaguely  knew, 

But  looked  above, 

As   one  who,   listening,   catches,    through 
Dim  vistas  of  the  ether  blue, 

Far  songs  of  love ! 

0  soul  it  was  an  idle  quest — 
We  must  look  higher! 

What  knowest  thou  of  God's  behest 
Except   love  kindle   in   thy  breast 
His  own   pure  fire? 

Then — Angel  of  the  heavenly  light, 
O  Love  Divine!  . 

1  cried — as  one  lost  in  the  night, 
Where  stand  the  hills  of  promise  bright, 

Fair  hills  of  thine? 

Love  answered  like  a  singing  bird 
Whose  voice  I  knew ; 

59 


60  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

And  something  in  my  heart  was  stirred 
Responsive  to  that  tender  word 
That  thrilled  me  through? 

"Go,  make  some  darkened  pathway  plain, 

Some  lorn  soul  please; 
Soothe  with  soft  hands  the  brow  of  pain, 
Lead  some  lost  brother  home  again, 

Some  heartache  ease. 

"So  shall  thy  feet  that  often  stray 

Where  false  lures  be, 
Climb,  step  by  step  and  day  by  day, 
The  heights  where  angels  lead  the  way, 

Or  wait  for  thee. 

"For  love  the  light  of  love  will  find, 

Albeit  dim; 

God  counts  the  love  that  helps  mankind, 
However  weak  and  poor  and  blind, 

As   love   for   Him." 

The  new  year  groweth  old  and  chill, 

The   dead   leaves   fall! 
Wild  winds  are  on  the  barren  hill, 
But  faith  and  hope  are  living  still, 

Surviving  all! 

And  in  my  heart  I  seem  to  hear 

That  voice  of  old, 

Still  calling  from  the  heights  so  clear, 
While  death  and  winter  draweth  near, 

And  life  grows  cold. 


The  Voice  of  Love  Divine  61 

Fair  hope !    Where  roll  the  mighty  spheres 

Lies  thy  bright  dream! 
Thy  plummet,  dropping  down  the  years, 
Beyond  the  darkness  and  the  tears, 

Finds  love  supreme ! 

For  no  high  soul  hath  loved  in  vain 

What  God  loves  most! 
No  tear  that  fell  on  error's  stain, 
No  tribute  on  love's  altar  lain 

Was  ever  lost! 

And  He,  who  notes  the  sparrow's  fall 

And  weighs  the  dust, — 
Who  holds  within  control  and  call 
The  suns  and  systems,  each  and  all, 

Is  One  to  trust. 

So,  when  at  the  far  gates  I  pine, 

Ashamed  with  sin, 
And  feel  how  poor  this  love  of  mine, 
Be  near,  O  gracious  Love  Divine, 

And  call  me  in. 


A  TRYST 

It  is  over,  and  done. 

We  meet  no  more  upon  the  hoary  earth ; 
Thy  new  life  is  begun, 

Thy  face  is  to  the  morning,  thy  new  birth 
Beyond  the  rising  of  the  sun. 

To  thee,  the  glorious  morn 

Will  never  wear  to  noon,  to  wane  or  eve, 
And  bitterness  and  scorn 

Will  never  more  thy  gentle  spirit  grieve, 
Or  make  thy  life  forlorn. 

So,  when  the  flying  years 

Shall  o'er  my  head  their  shifting  pageant  roll 
Of  joy  and  strife  and  fears, 

I'll  find  thy  place  of  rest,  O  whitest  soul, 
Made  pure  by  grief  and  tears! 

And  if  my  mortal  sin 

Shall  lift  its  front  before  me,  or  shall  bar 
The  goal  that  I  would  win, 

May  thy  pure  spirit  call,  through  gates  ajar, 
Me,  even  me,  within. 

Then  bide  a  tryst  for  me, 

By  silver  stream  or  garden  of  delight, 
In  realm  of  constancy — 

Out  of  the  glooms  of  earth,  through  the  dark 

night, 

I  bend  my  steps  to  thee. 
6* 


NEW  ENGLAND 

Hail,  birthplace  of  that  glorious  Liberty 

That  broke  the  shackles  from  the  bleeding  slave! 

Hail  to  thy  mountains  set  above  the  sea, 

Lone  watchers  o'er  thy  sons  and  daughters  brave! 

The  wide  world  knows  thy  record  in  the  past, 
Thy  steadfast  purpose  that  no  threats  could  awe ; 

It  saw  thy  brave  opinions  rise  at  last, 
Firm  set  on  truth,  and  broaden  into  law. 

On   thy  green  hills  our  country's  lyre  was  strung 
To  notes  exultant  by  the  master  hand  ; 

By  thy  blest  firesides  were  the  lyrics  sung 

That  stirred  the  pulse  of  freedom  in  the  land ! 

Justice  and  Order  here  made  their  abode — 
Here  lit  their  altars  with  celestial  flame; 

And  the  eternal  Providence  of  God 
Has  multiplied  the  honors  of  thy  name! 

And  far  and  wide  thy  spirit  treads  the  earth, 
And  mailed  Oppression  hath  its  slogan  heard — 

The  patient  slave,  by  many  a  fireless  hearth, 

Nerves  his  right  arm !    Hope  kindles  at  thy  word ! 

And,  in  a  dream,  I  see  the  future  rise, 

And  Liberty's  colossal  Genius  stands 
Upon  thy  mountains  that  divide  the  skies, 

Proclaiming  freedom  unto  all  the  lands ! 
63 


64  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

And  while  upon  thy  lofty  summits  rest 

The  golden  sunlight  and  the  summer  cloud, 

Men  shall  be  nourished  on  thy  rugged  breast, 
Who  dare  to  think,  and  thinking,  speak  aloud, — 

Men  who  can  hew  the  sturdy  forests  down 
And  do  stern  battle  with  thy  glebe  and  rock! 

Men  who  will  build  for  peace,  but  if  War  frown, 
Stand  like  thy  hills  when  comes  the  fiery  shock ! 

Go  on,  my  country:  the  applauding  ages 

Shall  praise  the  deeds  of  thine  immortal  youth, 

And  History's  muse  upon  yet  virgin  pages 

Shall  trace  thy  progress  to  the  heights  of  Truth. 

Whence  thou  shalt  see  the  glorious  age  begin, 
When   Greed   shall    fail,    and   grim   Oppression 
cease; 

And  nations  shall  conspire  to  usher  in 

The  years  of  God,  the  "thousand  years  of  Peace." 


OUR  ANGELS 

We  love  to  think  they  linger  with  us  still; 

That  when  our  souls  are  full  of  longings  deep, 
They  come  about  us  at  their  own  sweet  will 

And  steal  into  our  being,  soft  as  sleep. 

Shall  they  not  come,  the  darling  friends  of  ours, 
Who  gave  us  love  for  love  in  measure  true, — 

To    deck    whose    graves    the    Morning    gives    her 

flowers, 
And  Night  the  benediction  of  her  dew? 

We  long  have  kept  the  chambers  of  our  hearts 
Garnished  and  swept  with  sacred  care  for  them, 

And  memory  hoards,  as  year  by  year  departs, 
Their  love  and  friendship  as  a  precious  gem. 

We  may  not  see  them  with  our  mortal  vision, 
Nor  hear  the  music  they  have  just  begun; 

Still  they  may  come  to  speak  of  fields  Elysian, 
Or  guide  us  to  them  when  our  work  is  done. 

Spirits  intangible — we  know  they  come! 

When  our  life  tumults  for  a  moment  cease ; 
They  speak  to  us,  although  their  lips  are  dumb, 

And  the  great  silence  has  a  cry  of  peace. 

O,  tender  as  the  words  of  Christ  that  float, 
Full  argosies  of  love,  on  time's  wide  sea, — 

More  musical  than  Israfili's  note, 

More  loving  than  a  mother's  lullaby, — 
65 


66  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

More  beautiful  than  any  face  or  form, 

Dearer  than  fame  or  love's  divine  behest, — 

Sweeter  than  sunshine  after  days  of  storm, — 
Are  their  still  voices  from  a  land  of  rest. 

These  are  our  angels, — flesh  and  blood  no  more, 
As  ere  we  laid  them  in  our  kindred  earth ; 

And  yet  our  souls  may  reach  them,  gone  before, 
And  gather  strength  from  beings  of  new  birth. 

These  are  our  angels,  for  love  cannot  die, 
Nor  yet  in  Heaven  its  tender  lips  be  dumb, — 

Our  heralds,  who  will  watch,  and  fondly  cry 

In   the   great   Presence,    "Lo,   our   friends,   they 
come !" 


CROSSES 

Weep  not  for  those  who  leave  us  here,  forlorn, 

Mid  gardens  sere  and  brown; 
They,  at  the  gateway  of  the  splendid  morn, 

Have  laid  their  crosses  down. 

But  we,  who  linger  by  their  earthly  places, 

Where  yet  are  pain  and  tears, 
Must  lift  our  crosses  up,  and  turn  our  faces 

Toward  immortal  years. 

This  world  is  full  of  fondest  dreams  that  perish, 

Of  hopes  that  die  in  pain ! 
There  is  a  cross  in  everything  we  cherish, 

For  pleasure  or  for  gain. 

Friendship  and  love  are  beautiful  in  season, 

But  soon  we  mourn  their  loss, 
And  cannot  tell,  by  any  human  reason, 

Why  each  should  have  its  cross. 

The  cross  of  Friendship  is  a  bitter  thing, 

When  trusted  friends  go  wrong; 
The  cross  of  love — it  has  a  sharper  sting, 

With  pain  that  rankles  long! 

Now,  let  us  bravely  lift  each  cross  of  sorrow 
And  wreathe  its  thorns  with   flowers, 

We  cannot  wait  upon  a  dim  to-morrow 
When  only  now  is  ours. 

To-day  is  ours  to  live  in,  not  to  plod — 

To-day  we  have  our  breath ; 
To-morrow's   future,    and    belongs   to   God, 

And  may  belong  to  Death. 
6? 


FOR  DON —MY  DOG 

Where  loving  hands  have  made  thy  grave 
Sweet  be  thy  slumber  and  thy  sleep ; 

Above  thee  let  the  wild  flowers  wave 
And  soft  the  tender  raindrops  weep. 

In  tears  I  bid  a  long  adieu, 

Dear  comrade  of  my  lonely  days ; 

Thine  was  the  whitest  soul  I  knew 
Along  life's  common  beaten  ways. 

And  you  were  more  to  me  than  men 
Who  in  the  limelight  pray  for  grace, 

But  stab  in  secret,  and  again 

Walk  heavenward  with  averted  face. 

Men  waver,  falter,  cheat  and  lie, 
But  thou  did'st  never  fail  a  friend; 

Men  fail  when  fortune  passes  by 
But  you  were  faithful  to  the  end. 

Wise  Pagans  did  of  old  predict 

Our  dogs  to  Heaven  would  follow  us, 

And  Jesus  loved  the  dogs  that  licked 
The  bleeding  sores  of  Lazarus. 

If  love  is  God  then  love  will  live, 

If  God  is  love  it  cannot  die, 
But,  passing  on,  will  wait  to  give 

Itself  again  with  joyous  cry, 
68 


For  Don, — My  Dog  69 

When  we,  who  on  life's  drifting  sand 

Wait  calmly  for  the  final  pause, 
Shall  reach  the  unencumbered  land 

Where  all  love  is  that  ever  was. 

O  friends  beyond!    Advanced,  not  lost, 
With  joy  enlarging  more  and  more; 

And  one,  because  he  loved  me  most, 
Will  greet  me  first  on  that  glad  shore. 

Still,  something  would  our  pleasure  mar, 

A  sense  of  justice  unfulfilled, 
Else  we  beheld  from  that  fair  star 

The  star  where  heedless  fools  are  grilled! 

Where  Satan  guards  the  realm  of  Fate 

And  sets  his  fearful  grids  a-row 
We  might  complacent  view  his  state 

Who  struck  for  thee  the  fatal  blow. 

Aye,  where  Hell's  ceaseless  cycles  roll, 

And  pain  no  respite  hath  of  night, 
Nor  day,  for  a  beleagured  soul 

To  mark  the  stages  of  its  flight! 

Beyond  the  pale  of  hope  or  grace 

Cries  for  the  beggar's  touch  were  vain; 

No  dog  could  cross  that  awful  space 
To  lick  the  twinges  of  his  pain. 


A  FAREWELL  TO  JOE  ENGLISH 

Hail  and  farewell!     At  last  it  must  be  said, 
Dear  mountain  of  my  fondest  memories; 
Peace  to  thy  paths  my  feet  no  more  will  tread 
When  morning  smiles,  or  when  the  daylight  dies 
And  the  low  sun  makes  splendor  on  the  skies. 

This  day  is  all  too  sad !  a  time  for  tears, 

The  silent  emblems  of  a  grieving  soul, 

To  tremble  on  my  lids!     O,  happy  years 

I  leave  behind  me,  mount  o'er  whom  doth  roll 

The  angry  clouds — the  Storm  King's  ebon  scroll! 

My  sires  have  dwelt  beneath  thy  brow  long  years; 
Thou  wert  to  them  a  friend  both  true  and  fast; 
Thy  paths  have  known  their  feet,  thy  shade  their 

tears, 

Through  the  dim  seasons  of  the  silent  past; 
And  still  to  me  a  friend,  first,  always,  last. 

When,  with  a  smile,  the  dappled  Morning  flung 
Her  sun-bright  glances  on  thy  glowing  crest, 
Entranced,  I  listened  to  the  Druid  tongue 
Of  nature's  friendship,  and  thy  sylvan  breast 
Became  a  temple,  fit  for  prayer  or  rest. 

When,  like  a  disc  of  burnished  brass,  the  sun 
Swung  low  in  heaven  against  the  mottled  sky, 
I  watched  the  shadows  climbing,  one  by  one, 
Among  thy  centuried  oaks,   that  silently 
Grieved  in  their  hearts  to  see  the  daylight  die. 
70 


A  Farewell  to  Joe  English  71 

Beneath  thy  shadow  grew  an  artless  maid, 

A  daughter  of  the  breezes  and  the  sun  ; 

Life  bounded  with  her  pulses, — light  and  shade 

Made  riot  on  her  face. — Alas,  for  one 

So  young,  so  fair,  by  murderous  hand  undone. 

To  our  blind  senses  it  is  strange  indeed! 
The  fairest  flowers  are  first  of  beauty  shorn; 
The  loved  of  all,  from  hearts  that  break  and  bleed, 
In  life's  fair  morning  seem  so  rudely  torn, 
While  those  are  left,  for  whom  we  could  not  mourn. 

'Twas  at  thy  foot  the  fair  Sevilla  fell 
A  mad  love's  sacrifice.    The  virgin  snow 
Drank  her  life  blood,  with  his,  the  son  of  Hell, 
Whose  deed  on  earth  made  all  the  fiends  below 
Chagrined  with  shame,  a  viler  wretch  to  know! 

He  sleeps  to-day  within  a  culprit's  grave, 
Unmarked,  unknown,  a  curse  upon  his  name! 
O  deep  Oblivion,  let  thy  silent  wave 
Blot  out  forever  his  unholy  fame, 
The  coward,  the  assassin,  and  his  shame! 

But  she  will  live,  returning  after  death 

With  the  cool  May-flower  and  its  lowly  brood — 

With   Spring's  sweet  voice   and   Summer's   ardent 

breath 

To  linger  lightly  in  thy  still  green  wood, 
The  Priestess  of  thy  sylvan  solitude ! 

Reclining  here  beneath  this  giant  oak, 
Where  sat  the  dusky  maid  of  other  years, 


72  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

I  hear  the  silence  by  her  whispers  broke, 

As  that  still  voice  the  spirit  only  hears 

Breaks  on  the  soul  and  melts  the  heart  to  tears. 

And  where  within  thy  leafy  recess  lingers 

The  wood-lark's  song,  the  brown  bee's  drowsy  hum, 

The  wild  rose  bloom  will  lightly  kiss  thy  fingers — 

At  thy  sweet  will  the  Elfin  troops  will  come 

To  this,  thy  shrine,  in  adoration  dumb! 

And  legends  old  are  floating  through  my  brain, 
Things  of  the  past,  surviving  change  and  chance; 
I  see  Joe  English,  in  his  plumes  again, 
March  down  the  war-trail  of  his  weird  romance — 
The  painted  savage  and  the  wild  war-dance! 

Now  the  red  warriors  glut  their  frenzied  ire! 
The  Indian  war-cry,  with  its  dread  alarms, 
Speaks  far  and  wide  of  tomahawk  and  fire; 
By  burning  cabins  hear  the  clash  of  arms — 
The  wail  of  death  about  the  lonely  farms! 

When  Liberty,  from  out  her  dungeon  barred, 
Sent  her  faint  cheer  for  freedom's  battle  won, 
The  tyrant-loving  Tories  basely  marred 
Thy  fair  traditions;  and  from  thy  crest  of  stone, 
Hurled  down,  in  effigy,  great  Washington! 

Let  fame  give  them  no  largess,  but  the  scorn 
Of  freemen's  sons  through  ages  yet  to  be! 
The  craven  enemies  of  men  unborn 
Were  these  king-fawners,  scorning  to  be  free, 
When  heroes  lit  the  torch  of  Liberty! 


A  Farewell  to  Joe  English  73 

The  Arnolds  of  Perdition,  damned  to  fame! 
Most  grievous  blot  on  thy  tradition  fair! 
Let  Lucifer  in  Hell  forbear  to  name 
So  black  a  deed!     May  Pity  never  dare 
Assuage  their  long  repentance  and  despair! 

But  all  is  changed  save  thy  unchanging  form; 

The  conflict's  diapason  sounds  no  more, 

And  naught  disturbs  thy  silence  but  the  storm 

That  thunders  on  thy  bosom  as  of  yore, 

Nor  calls  Joe  English  from  the  spectral  shore. 

And  since  those  days  the  fleeting  years  of  time 
Have  borne  into  the  past  these  visions  gory; 
And  standing  here,  upon  the  verge  sublime 
Of  two  eternities,  I  see  thy  story — 
Thy  legends  and  traditions  growing  hoary. 

And  now  that  changeless  Fate,  with  stern  decree, 
Calls  me  'mid  other  lands  and  scenes  to  roam, 
Far  from  the  friends  I  ever  loved,  and  thee, 

0  mountain !  that,  beside  my  early  home, 
Liftest  thy  head  up  to  the  welkin  dome, 

1  say  farewell !    Then  why  do  I  stand  here, 
And  cavil  at  the  things  I  cannot  change? 

I  will  resign  myself  unto  my  sphere 

And  murmur  not,  though  long  and  far  I  range, 

Making  new  friends  where  all  is  new  and  strange  I 

Friend  of  my  youth,  farewell!  my  dream  is  o'er; 
O,  come!  thou  spirit  that  enchantment  lends, 
Give  me  thy  benediction,  ere  once  more 


74  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

I  go  to  other  mountains,  other  friends, 

But  none  like  thee,  till  life  or  memory  ends! 

And  I  will  not  forget  the  long,  long  days 

I've  whiled  away  beneath  thy  oaken  shade, 

Or  strolled  about  thy  pleasant  woodland  ways, 

Reading,  in  covert  nook  or  sunny  glade, 

Kind  Nature's  thoughts  in  rock  and  leaf  and  blade. 

And  in  the  coming  years,  when  far  away, 
My  bark  is  tossed  upon  life's  troubled  stream, 
My  thoughts  shall  turn,  O  mountain  old  and  gray, 
Back  unto  thee,  my  boyhood's  early  theme, 
Thou  glorious  pile,  that  meet'st  the  sun's  first  beam ! 

And  I  shall  see,  as  I  behold  it  now, 
The  golden  sunlight  falling  on  thy  face, 
Or  fair  cloud  draperies  hung  aloft  thy  brow 
Encircling  thee  with  forms  of  airy  grace, — 
Then  shall  my  heart  yearn  to  this  holy  place. 


ANABEL 


In  the  valley  of  the  roses 

There  I  met  sweet  Anabel, 
When  she  walked  in  summer  closes 

And  the  paths  of  asphodel; 
And  her  smile  was  like  the  vision 

Saints  have  caught  in  golden  gleams 
From  the  fairy  fields  elysian 

In  the  happy  land  of  dreams. 

The  lilies  laughed  that  one  so  sweet 

Should  walk  in  their  cool  places, 
The  daisies  smiling  at  her  feet 

Turned  to  her  face  their  faces; 
The  swallows  darted  east  and  west 

On  joyous  wings  to  meet  her, 
The  veery  from  its  secret  nest 

Came  forth  with  song  to  greet  her. 

Small  wonder,  then,  should  Eros  find 

A  fere  in  this  green  valley ; 
When  loveliness  is  also  kind 

Love  to  its  arms  will  rally; 
The  wonder  is  that  one  so  fair 

Both  rose  and  bird  adore  her, 
Should  smile  at  me  who  must  forbear 

To  lay  my  heart  before  her. 
75 


76  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 


II 


Fairest  flower  in  all  the  valley 

Where  our  shining  river  flows, 
I  have  searched  the  pleasant  marges 

For  the  largess  of  the  rose; 
And  here's  a  wild  rose  fair  for  your  hair, 

Silver-laughing  Anabel, 
Pink  and  red,  it  is  a  part  of  my  heart 

And  the  love  it  may  not  tell. 


In  the  years  that  lie  before  thee 

Like  this  river  long  and  fair, 
Lover  leal,  I  may  adore  thee — 

If  thy  love  I  may  not  share, 
And  thou'lt  never,  nay,  forever, 

Dainty  darling  Anabel, 
Find  a  better  love  to  fetter 

With  the  magic  of  thy  spell. 


But  our  names  are  not  together 

Written  on  the  roll  of  Fate; 
Rarely  bird  of  ebon  feather 

With  the  gentle  dove  did  mate; 
So  in  sadness,  born  of  gladness 

Of  love's  dreaming,  Anabel, 
I  will  take  it,  ere  thou  break  it, 

Luckless  heart!  and  fare  thee  well. 


A  nab  el  ^^ 


in 


In  the  valley  of  the  roses 

There  is  blush  and  bloom  to  spare, 
In  the  fragrant  summer  closes 

Walks  a  saint  with  silver  hair, 
And  if  haply  she  is  dreaming 

Of  the  olden,  golden  years, 
I  can  feel  the  smile  that's  beaming 

In  the  vision  of  her  tears. 


TO  SUSIE 

If  thou  couldst  look,  beloved  soul, 

From  thy  high  world  to  this, 
Across  the  shadowy  seas  that  roll 
Between  us  and  thy  bliss, — 
If  thou  couldst  see  each  dear  loved  face 

Whose  lips  have  kissed  the  rod, 
And  feel  how  lonely  is  the  place 
Where  thy  dear  feet  have  trod : — 

Then  pain  would  touch  thy  tender  heart, 

And  tears  suffuse  thine  eyes, 
And  sorrow  have  a  place  and  part 

In  God's  own  Paradise! 
No,  no, — thine  eyes  of  heavenly  birth 

Are  blind  to  what  we  see; — 
We  would  not  drag  thee  down  to  earth, 
But  rise,  bright  soul,  to  thee ! 


THE  LIGHT  MEN  USE 

To  those  who  use  the  precious  light  from  Heaven, 

That,  in  some  measure,  comes  to  every  soul, 
More  light,  more  knowledge,  wider  views  are  given 

Until  the  future,  like  an  open  scroll, 
Reveals  its  secrets  in  the  steady  glare 

Of  spiritual  light,  till  mortal  eyes 
Behold  the  Hills  of  Promise  standing  fair 

In  summer  lands  and  under  radiant  skies. 

More   knowledge   is   foreknowledge   to   some   men 

Who  use  it  wisely,  ever  reaching  higher 
The  rugged  steeps,  whence  broaden  to  their  ken 

The  full  fruition  of  the  soul's  desire. 
So  men  become  as  angels,  standing  square 

Upon  the  heights  that  overlook  the  world — 
Below,  the  darkened  valleys — above  them  fair 

Are  truth's  white  banners  to  the  winds  unfurled. 

There  is  no  need  that  man  should  be  a  clod, 

Senseless  and  blind — a  brute  amidst  the  flowers — 
For,  in  all  ages,  men  have  climbed  to  God 

Through    perilous   ways   by    dimmer   light   than 

ours. 
Therefore,  lead  on,  lead  on,  O  Light  Divine, 

Until  our  feet  shall  touch  the  gleaming  spheres, 
Where  faces  of  the  dead  in  beauty  shine, 

And  Heaven's  beatitude  enshrines  our  tears. 
79 


8o  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

Then  shall  this  old  world,   reeling  onward,  seem 

But  as  a  bivouac  in  the  battle  march. 
Where  we  have  watched  a  night  and  dreamed  a 
dream, 

And  left  it,  swinging  'neath  the  starry  arch, 
To  seek  the  land  we  dreamed  of,  and  to  be 

With  those  we  loved  aforetime,  gone  before, — 
To  breathe  the  essence  of  true  liberty 

Where  knowledge  grows  and  broadens  evermore. 


A  REVERIE 

The  bloom  is  on  the  apple  tree, 

The  fields  are  specked  with  gold, 
And  I  will  walk  in  dreams  with  thee, 

Thou  dearest  friend  of  old; 
And  years,   too  full  of  joy  to  last, 

Shall  pass  me,  one  by  one, 
The  tender  footfalls  of  the  past, 

A  moment  heard — and  gone. 

And  stay  thy  flight,  delightful  dreams, 

I  would  not  know  the  truth ; 
I'll  walk  with  thee  again  what  seems 

The  glorious  hills  of  youth ; 
And  by  a  far,  far  window-tree 

Beneath  the  Summer  sky, 
A  tender  voice  shall  speak  to  me 

Of  love  that  cannot  die. 

Of  love  that  cannot  die?    Alas! 

It  lives  in  dreams  alone; 
The  swallow  and  the  rose  will  pass, 

But  not  the  senseless  stone! 
And  I  shall  see  thy  smiling  face 

No  more — no  more  thy  tears — 
Nor  yet  the  semblance  of  thy  grace 

Beyond  the  flying  years. 

Then  walk  with  me  in  dreams  where  stand 

The  sun-clad  hills  of  old; 
'Tis  something  worth  to  touch  Love's  hand, 
81 


82  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

Albeit  dead  and  cold! 
To  greet  thy  face  is  something  worth 

Although  in  dreams  it  be, 
Since  we  shall  never  meet  on  earth, 

Nor  greet  on  Time's  wide  sea. 


THE  SWEETEST  WORD 

Like  rain  upon  the  thirsting  flower, 

Whose  leaves  are  pinched  and  dry, 
That  many  a  long  and  weary  hour 

Hath   prayed    upon   the   sky, — 
Hath  prayed  with  pleading  face  at  morn, 

At  noon  with  lifted  eye, 
Hath  bent,  ere  night,  its  head  forlorn 

On  desert  sands  to  die; 

So  come  the  tender  words  to  me, 

"I  will  forgive — forget!" 
Sweet  are  all  words  of  charity, 

But  these  are  sweetest  yet. 
O  blessed  words !     Long  may  they  be 

To  love's  grand  music  set ! 
One  is  a  voice  from  Galilee, 

And  one  from  Olivet. 


A  PLEA  FOR  A  HEART 

Give  back  thy  heart  to  me ! 
The  years  are  shod  with  silence  and  they  fly — 
Our  days  will  soon  be  overcast,  and  I 

Would  comfort  thee. 

To  me  why  art  thou  dumb, 
Remembering  not  the  joys  of  other  years, 
Or  that  within  the  grave  no  sighs  or  tears 

Or  love  can  come? 

The  night  is  overheard; 
It  darkens  on  the  confines  of  the  day, 
And  when  it  falls,  beneath  the  sodden  clay 

I  shall  be  dead. 

If  you  should  love  me  then, 
And  call  my  name  with  piteous  moan  and  sigh, 
From  the  great  space  of  peace  I  could  not  cry, 

Or  love  again! 

For  on  that  silent  shore 

To  which  our  steps  are  bending,  day  by  day, 
All  earthly  loves  and  dreams  are  cast  away 

For  evermore. 

And  if  too  late,  too  late, 
Relenting,  you  forgive  the  bitter  word, 
Your  voice  will  be  a  music  all  unheard, 

A  wail  of  fate! 

84 


A  Plea  for  a  Heart  85 

For  then  how  poor,  how  vain, 
Were  tender  words,  or  tears,  or  deep  regret 
To  one  in  death's  long  sleep,  where  men  forget 

Pleasure  and  pain! 

Give  back  thy  heart,  my  love, 
The  Ark  still  floats  upon  the  perilous  sea, 
The  windows  of  my  soul  are  wide  to  thee, 

Wing-weary  dove ! 


SONNETS 

i 

In  far-off  steeples  chime  the  vesper  bells, 

Calling  to  prayer!     Full  sweet  their  music  swells, 

Voicing  for  me  loved  melodies  of  yore, 

And  life's  first  beautiful  and  bygone  dream, — 

Breathing  of  lips  that  I  shall  press  no  more, 

Of  friends  that  perished  on  the  shore  where  roll 

The  waves  of  Lethe's  dark  and  silent  stream, 

Of  speaking  eyes  that  looked  into  my  soul 

And  closed  their  lids  forever! — parting  tears, 

And  words  that  sound  across  the  gulf  of  years! 

Speak  on,  O  vesper  bells,  with  voices  sweet ! 

Soothe  with  soft  tones  the  wearied  brain  of  care, 

Call  back  the  vanished  years,  and  let  them  meet 

For  dear  remembrance  at  the  hour  of  prayer. 

II 

Brown  minstrel  of  the  summer  wood,  that  sings, 
Poised  on  a  spray  out-hung  in  breezes  free, 
How  sweetly  from  thy  bubbling  breast  upsprings 
The  riot  of  exultant  melody! 
Thy  song  is  of  green  valleys,  mountain  walled, 
Of  daisy-sprinkled  mead   and   glinting  stream; 
Thou  art  the  sweetest  voice  that  ever  called 
A  mate  to  tryst,  a  dreamer  from  his  dream. 
Melodious  juggler!     How  thy  wizard  tongue 
Outrolls  the  note  of  every  woodland  bird ; 
Thy  lay,  untutored,  is  as  naively  sung 
As  when  in  Eden  first  thy  voice  was  heard — 
And  men  will  listen  to  thy  rapturous  glee 
When  we  are  dead,  and  praise  thy  minstrelsy. 

86 


Sonnets  87 


ra 

If  all  the  wrongs  of  earth,  our  low  estate, 
In  Heaven  are  righted  and  all  tears  dried  up, 
If  there  is  broke  Fate's  poison-tinctured  cup 
Which  men  have  drank  to  the  dim  brink  of  death, 
Why  should  we  punish  or  pursue,  or  hate 
Foes  of  a  passing  hour?    Why  waste  our  breath 
In  curses  more  than  vain?    Have  we  not  heard 
"Vengeance  is  mine"?     O,  how  that  fearful  word, 
A  naked  dagger,  through  the  ages  runs 
From  Eden  unto  Judgment!     The  dark,  dead 
Centuries  the  Dictum  heard!  and  till  the  suns 
Stand  still  in  Heaven,  men  shall  hear!     "Dust  to 

dust" 

Is  not  more  true:  yet  God  may  we  not  trust? 
"Mercy  is  Mine,"  hath  He  not  also  said? 

IV 

How  like  a  flickering  candle,  burning  low, 

And  going  out  in  utter  nothingness, 

Is  this  poor  life  begun  in  others'  woe, 

And  quickly  ended  in  its  own  distress! 

How  like  a  ship  upon  an  angry  sea, 

With  breakers  on  the  right  hand  and  the  left, 

Of  chart  and  compass  cruelly  bereft, 

And  grating  on  the  sharp  rocks  shudderingly, 

To  those  who  know  not,  and  can  never  know, 

The  luxury  of  a  pilot  out  of  woe! 

Therefore,  O  come,  divinest  pilot,  Hope, 

With  thy  beloved  sister,  gentle  Faith, 

And  lead  us  from  the  wilderness  where  grope 

The  grisly  forms  of  Misery  and  Death! 


Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 


If,  after  all  these  disappointing  years, 

In  some  far  land  we  meet,  beloved  soul, 

Beyond  all  sorrow  and  the  stern  control 

Of  change  and  death,  and  time,  with  all  its  tears, 

Shall  we  recall  the  days  that  are  no  more, 

When  youth,  with  castles  builded  fair,  was  ours? 

And,  walking  by  the  far,  remembered  shore, 

We  read  the  language  of  the  stars  and  flowers 

In  love's  delicious  dream — its  prophecy 

Of  hopes  full-crowned  in  golden  years  to  be? — 

To  be? — They  are  not!    If  they  ever  come, 

The  happy  years  our  vision  saw  arise, 

It  will  be  Heaven  indeed !    Ah,  doubts,  be  dumb,— 

And  faith,  look  upward  and  beyond  the  skies ! 


VI 

How  oft  we  dream  of  happy  fields  elysian, 

Fair  lands  of  rest,  but  know  not  where  they  lie; 

We  only  know  they  lie  beyond  our  vision 

On  some  far  islands  of  the  boundless  sky. 

Then  let  us  make  no  weak  or  fretful  cry 

Fate's  listless  ear  was  never  charmed  with  moan, 
But  simple  faith  can  solve  eternity 
And  make  the  fairest  land  of  dreams  its  own ! 
And  let  the  years  lead  to  the  shore  unknown: 
Stay  not  their  wings  that  seek  the  splendid  day, 
So  they  but  teach  us  ere  they  pass  away 
The  living  truth  that  work  and  faith  are  one, 
And  every  noble  thought  a  stepping-stone 
Whereon  our  feet  are  lifted  from  the  clay. 


Sonnets  89 


VII 

I  hear  the  clock  strike,  with  a  solemn  dole, 

The  hours  from  time  forevermore  exempted; 

Sleep  flies  my  pillow,  and  will  not  be  tempted 

To  lay  the  touch  of  slumber  on  my  soul! 

I  feel  a  longing,  and  a  loneliness, 

Over  my  spirit  sinuously  creep; 

My  heart  aches,  and  my  sleepless  eyes  would  weep 

If  tears  availed.     Now  I  would  gladly  bless 

The  day  of  thy  return,  O  dearest  friend! 

The  day  that  brings,  with  thy  soft  hand's  caress, 

Kisses  exuberant  in  fond  excess, 

And  all  thy  wifely  graces,  charms  which  lend 

Enchantment  to  life's  plain  and  common  things, 

Making  them  luxury  and  fit  for  kings. 


VIII 

We  met  as  strangers,  and  we  spoke  no  word, 
Thy  face  as  speechless  marble  glistening  cold, 
Yet  in  our  hearts  were  greetings  as  of  old, 
Voiceful  of  tenderness  although  unheard! 
For  they  who  once  have  loved  with  passion  pure, 
Can  never  all  forget  the  joy  love  gives; 
And  sleeping  in  thy  breast,  it  surely  lives, 
Though  starved  and  strangled,  and  will  still  endure! 
As  embers  that  have  burned  and  smouldered  low, 
Fanned  by  fresh  winds,  rekindle  to  a  flame, 
So  does  the  heart  with  love  a  moment  glow 
At  sight  of  some  dear  face.     It  is  the  same 
Old  love  that  will  not  die!    Go  where  we  will, 
It  goeth  with  us,  and  will  pain  us  still ! 


90  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 


IX 

Lift  to  my  face,  dear  love,  your  teary  eyes 

With  pearly  drops  so  sweetly  overrun; 

Blue  as  the  rift  in  April's  changing  skies 

Beneath  the  golden  lashes  of  the  sun! 

Albeit  their  fringe  of  weeping  is  the  shade 

Of  summer's  rose  with  violet  inlaid! 

I  will  repent  me  that  a  word  of  mine 

Should  ever  make  thee  weep,  O  fairest  one! 

I  would  do  penance  to  a  sainted  shrine 

And  kiss  dry  bones,  for  this  which  I  have  done? 

Put  gravel  in  my  shoes,  and  walk  alone, 

Far  o'er  the  flinty  hills  with  stifled  groan ! 

Or,  if  thou  wilt,  on  suppliant  knee,  I  pray, 

"My  darling,  let  me  kiss  thy  tears  away!" 


What  art  thou,  Death,  O  dread  of  all  mankind, 

Whose  noiseless  feet,  pursuing,  never  rest, 

Whose  ruthless  hand  doth  never  cease  to  bind 

And  make  its  own  the  truest  and  the  best? 

An  end  to  all?    The  sum  of  all  our  years? 

A  leap  in  darkness,  an  eternal  sleep? 

Or  is  life  real?    And  do  we  truly  live 

For  some  high  purpose  which  we  cannot  know 

Except  by  faith?    Doth  God  a  season  give 

Each  soul  in  which  to  choose  its  way  to  go? 

To  vales  of  radiant  bloom,  where  are  no  tears, 

Or  to  a  dismal  and  unquiet  deep? 

And  does  the  spirit,   from  these  bonds  of  clay, 

Rise  at  thy  touch,  and  go  its  chosen  way? 


Sonnets  91 


XI 

God  careth  not  for  piles  of  hammered  stone, 
Nor  circumstance  of  ceremonious  prayer; 
But  in  the  fields  and  on  the  mountains  lone 
Are  temples  high  as  heaven,  builded  fair, 
Where  God  forever  dwells.     His  tender  voice 
Is  in  the  winds  and  waters  that  rejoice, 
And  Nature  is  a  preacher  everywhere, 
Whose  unstained  lips  a  steadfast  truth  declare. 
O,  give  me  then  the  mountain  and  the  glen, 
Or  stately  wood  by  marge  of  pleasant  stream, 
I  would  not  herd  with  vain  and  selfish  men 
Whose  sanctimonious  noise  assoils  my  dream, 
This  lichened  rock,  beneath  the  old  oak  tree, 
Is  nave  and  altar  good  enough  for  me. 


XII 

Tears  fill  the  measure  of  our  years,  never 
Is  sorrow  absent  from  the  hoary  earth; 
There's  no  abiding  place  for  joy  or  mirth, 
Nor  any  rest  from  strife  .and  vain  endeavor 
Our  friends  are  passing,  one  by  one,  the  river, 
Dark,  silent,  deep,  'twixt  seen  and  unseen  lands, 
Whilst  we  can  only  lift  our  helpless  hands 
Forlorn,  beseeching,  to  the  vast  Forever! 
It  may  be  in  the  wide,  eternal  space 
There  is  a  resting-place  that  human  prayer 
Can  reach  and  claim ; — else,  in  the  deepening  gloom 
Love,  beauty,  friendship,  gold  or  lofty  place 
Were  vain  indeed !    But  pitfalls  set  to  snare 
Regardless  men!     Mere  gilding  of  the  tomb. 


92  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 


XIII 

When  Satan,  from  the  groaning  deeps  of  Hell, 

Let  toothache  loose  upon  the  sons  of  men 

There  was  rejoicing  'mong  the  hosts  that  fell, 

And  deathless  hope  revived  the  damned  again, — 

For  they  were  eased  a  turn,  while  man  was  cursed 

With  Lucifer's  last  agony, — and  worst! 

O  pain  supreme !    Thy  victims  curse  and  pray 

Alternate,  as  thy  lances  rest  or  play, 

But  howl  no  more,  ye  fools,  nor  pray,  forsooth, — 

It  only  lets  the  cold  in  on  the  tooth; 

But  when  the  nerve  jumps  and  you  wish  to  die, 

Just  keep  your  mouth  shut  with  a  mental  cry, 

And  call  a  dentist  quick,  and  laugh  to  feel 

The  rigid  grip  of  his  remorseless  steel. 


XIV 

Ah,  bitter  cold  and  dreary  is  the  night, 
Closing  a  day  as  chill  and  bitter  cold; 
The  cattle  shiver  in  the  littered  fold, 
Moaning  in  misery  for  the  summer  plain! 
Wild  winds  are  driving  in  their  headlong  flight 
The  fierce  battalions  of  the  frozen  rain! 
Lord  pity  those,  shut  out  from  fireside  bliss, 
Homeless  and  hungry,  on  a  night  like  this! 
And  teach  us,  by  our  cheerful  fires  within, 
To  pity  too,  for  all  men  are  our  kin — 
And  let  us  pray  in  deeds  for  such  as  these, 
For  wishes  ease  no  pain,  words  dry  no  tears, 
Thus  we  may  know  thy  watchful  angel  sees 
A  thousand  prayers  for  every  one  he  hears. 


Sonnets  93 


xv 

When  Darkness,  like  a  demon,  strode  supreme 

O'er  country  waste  and  city  solitude, 

I  heard  the  cry  of  want,  as  in  a  dream, 

Come  to  my  ear  with  low,  sad  interlude 

Of  mourning,  as  some  spirit  dropped  its  load. 

Where  Poverty  and  Famine  stalk  abroad, 

And  Vice  and  Squalor  have  their  mean  abode, 

I  heard  the  orphans  crying  unto  God, 

Wide-mouthed,  incessant,  piteously  and  rude. 

As  young  birds  cry,  whose  mother  hath  been  slain! 

And  from  a  thousand  places  came  the  cry, 

A  thousand  cities  echoed  on  the  strain — 

"Hunger  and  cold!    Lord,  succor;  or  we  die, 

With  wealth  and  plenty  mocking  us  to  pain!" 


XVI 

And  then  I  saw,  in  stately  palaces 
Where  mimic  suns  on  lusty  beauty  shine, 
The  glut  of  gold.    And  silver  chalices, 
Brimming  luxurious  with  beaded  wine, 
Greeted  to  ruin  half  the  sons  of  pride, 
Steeped  to  the  lips  in  overbearing  wealth! 
Without  the  gates,  the  poor  and  homeless  sighed, 
Scarce  kept  alive  with  pickings  got  by  stealth. 
In  vain  the  widow  for  her  orphans  cried — 
"Bread!  bread!     For  Liberty  their  father  died!" 
And,  while  I  looked,  my  soul  within  grew  wiser, 
And  loud  I  cried,  with  pity  in  my  breath, 
"No  more  a  tyrant,  but  an  equalizer, 
Thou  great  Agrarian,  stern,  relentless  Death!" 


94  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 


XVII 

If  thou  dost  look,  from  thy  calm  rest  in  Heaven, 
Back  to  the  scenes  of  strife,  or  tears,  or  mirth ; 
If  thou  dost  know,  where  sins  are  all  forgiven, 
The  sin  and  sorrow  of  the  groaning  earth, — 
How  must  thy  heart  ache,  even  where  joy  has  birth, 
And  yearn  to  thy  beloved,  passion  born ! 
No,  no,  it  cannot  be!     For  pain,  nor  sin, 
Nor  sorrow  at  thy  gates  shall  enter  in 
To  mar  the  splendor  of  eternal  morn! — 
Then,  we  are  separate  forevermore: 
Thou,  'midst  the  blooms  of  Paradise  afar, 
With  happiness  full  rounded  like  a  star 
In  sphered  beauty  perfect.     I,  on  the  shore 
Of  Time's  long  reaches,  utterly  forlorn. 


THE  TRYST  OF  THE  PILOT 


By  marge  of  the-  Stygian  river 

Deep,  still  in  the  valley  of  mist, 

Dividing  to-day  and  forever 

The  Pilot  is  biding  a  tryst: 

Biding  a  tryst  with  the  naked  soul 

At  the  rim  of  the  dreadful  night, 

O  Pilot,  but  wait  where  the  dark  waves  roll 

And  the  unknown  terrors  affright ! 

II 

While  Science  that  weighed  the  flying  star 
Is  dumb  with  a  shivering  fear, 
Love  never  is  far  from  the  river's  bar 
When  a  soul  that  hath  loved  draws  near! 
And  gold  men  hold  with  a  grip  that's  vain — 
It  pays  no  toll  and  it  buys  no  breath, 
Nor  state  nor  beauty  nor  high  disdain 
Can  stay  the  swift  Angel  of  Death ! 

in 

But  one  still  waits  where  the  shadows  fall 
Dark  on  their  way  who  have  loved  him  long, 
Forsaken,  despairing, — he  hears  their  call, 
They  hear  in  the  valley  his  love-sweet  song ; — 
The  song  of  good  will  at  the  Manger, 
The  song  of  the  Bethlehem  Star, — 
O  Life,  and  not  Death  the  Avenger, 
Is  Lord  at  the  terrible  bar! 

95 


96  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 


IV 

O  Voice  of  Gethsemane,  pleading 

For  all  generations  of  men! 

Dear  Voice,  on  fair  Olivet  reading 

The  promise  of  Eden  again! 

At  the  rim  of  the  night,  at  the  goal — 

The  shore  of  the  limitless  sea, 

When  the  cold  waves  roll  over  my  soul 

Tryst  Thou  in  thy  pity  with  me. 


THE  WHITE  TICKET 


Men  may  strive  and  toil  for  riches, 

Place  or  power  or  lofty  name, 

Lift  their  blazon  to  the  niches 

Of  the  marble  Halls  of  Fame; 

But  when  life's  brief  day  is  ended  and  its  splendid 

Dreams  have  faded  with  its  sun, 

Over  Charon's  dismal  ferry  they  can  carry 

But  the  good  deeds  they  have  done, 

But  the  soul's  self  abnegation 

And  the  pardon  it  has  won. 


II 


Let  us  then  make  haste  in  doing, 

For  our  days  like  shadows  fly; 

Howe'er  swift  our  feet,  pursuing 

Death  is  swifter,  and  we  die! 

"O  my  brothers!"  men  are  crying,  some  are  dying 

In  the  clutch  of  want  and  shame, — 

With  love's  guidon  we  can  lead  them,  we  can  feed 

them 

With  our  bounty  in  Christ's  name, 
And  our  sympathy  will  kindle 
Hope's  dull  embers  into  flame. 
97 


98  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 


III 

So,  when  Charon  halts  his  wherry 
Where  we  wait  on  drifting  sands, 
And  we  cross  the  dreadful  ferry 
To  the  dim  and  mystic  lands, 

We  can  show  a  clean  white  ticket  at  the  wicket, 
And  we  reach  the  shining  gate, — 
And   Saint   Peter,   the  grim   warder,   he  will   or 
der, — 

"Open  Sesame!     They  wait!" 
For  the  watchword  of  the  Master 
Is  the  arbiter  of  fate. 


ON  THE  SHORE 

Over  the  harbor  bar  to-day 

Proud  ships  go  out  to  sea; 
Fair  winds  upon  their  canvas  play, 
Prayers  speed  them  on  their  shining  way — 

Where  may  their  haven  be? 

Where  are  the  ships  that  sailed  the  main, 

With  wind  and  waves  to  sport? 
One  trysted  with  the  hurricane, 
The  iceberg  on  the  ocean  plain, 
One  reached  a  peaceful  port! 

Friends  looked  for  their  beloved  again 

Until  their  eyes  grew  dim; 
They  scanned  the  dark  blue  verge  in  vain, 
Never  the  white  sails  of  the  slain 

Flecked  the  horizon's  rim. 

Tell  me  of  these,  O  ruthless  sea, 

The  tale  I  fain  would  hear! 
O  winds  that  wander  far  and  free, 
How  fared  the  ships  that  sailed  with  thee 

This  many,  many  a  year? 

In  vain  the  homeless  winds  I  hail, 

In  vain,  the  mighty  deep ! 
Proud  fleets  may  sink  before  the  gale, 
Great  seas  may  drown  the  fishers'  sail, 

And  all  their  secrets  keep. 

99 


IOO  Songs  from  the  Granite  Hills 

And  on  a  darker  shore  I  stand 

Beside  a  wider  sea ; 
My  feet  are  on  the  shifting  sand, 
My  friends  are  passing  from  the  land — 

Where  may  their  haven  be? 

O  Captain  of  our  destinies! 
O  Warden  of  the  soul! 

0  Ruler  of  the  gloomy  seas, 
Still  as  the  dead  eternities, 

Hath  man  no  chart  or  goal? 

Grim  Silence  guards  the  outer  bar, 

The  lips  of  Death  are  sealed ; 
But  breaking  on  the  dark,  afar 

1  see  the  glimmer  of  a  star 

By  steadfast  love  revealed. 

Lead  Thou  me  on,  O  Beacon  Light 

Set  for  the  shore  unknown ; 
About  me  lie  the  glooms  of  night, 
The  winds  are  loud,  the  waves  affright,- 

O  Star  of  Hope,  lead  on ! 

Then  let  the  dark  seas  break  and  roll, 

The  winds  blow  as  they  will : 
I  need  not  fear  the  rock  or  shoal 
If  I  may  hear,  within  my  soul, 
The  Master's  "Peace,  be  still !" 


A  PLEA  FOR  LOVE 

My  living  friends  with  love  I  keep, 

My  dead  by  faith  I  hold; 
Their  words  are  like  the  touch  of  sleep, 
Their  thoughts  like  threads  of  gold ; 
And  these  I  cherish  in  my  heart, 
And  make  them  of  my  life  a  part. 

For  what  is  sweet  as  constant  love, 

Or  pure  as  friendship's  tear? 
In  all  my  dreams  of  Heaven  above 
My  friends  are  standing  near ; 
And  tender  words  and  loving  eyes 
Complete  the  joys  of  Paradise. 

Then  grant  me,  Heaven,  when  I  am  old 

Love  still  may  be  the  same ; 
Fortune  may  keep  her  tinsel  gold, 
And  fame  its  sounding  name — 
For  these  must  perish  utterly, 
But  surely  love  will  go  with  me. 


101 


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